Violets and Virulence
by Mushroom Scribe
Summary: Sequel to "Violets and Violence". Much has changed for Eragon since Ellesméra, and the same holds amply true for Elva. Is Eragon prepared for this fierce new Shiningbrow? Moreover, is the rest of Alagaësia? AU, Eragon/Elva, some E/Ar; set after Brisingr
1. Irruption

**Violets and Virulence**_  
>(Sequel to Violets and Violence)<br>An Inheritance fanfiction, set following Brisingr... by "MS"_

Characters/Settings © Chris Paolini; Story © Author

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><p><em>Chapter One – Irruption<em>  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Eragon Shadeslayer was utterly exhausted to his core. The hastened flight from Du Weldenvarden to Feinster and the ensuing battle had robbed him of every shred of magic he possessed. Now was a time to rest and recuperate.

He knew, of course, that it was his duty as the last free Dragon Rider to present an image of courage and fortitude to his enemies and allies alike. But what else could he do when his reserves were spent? Pitch forward where he stood in a few days' time when the very last dregs of energy abandoned him? No, that was a fool's errand. He would rest.

Saphira, however, was not quite ready to retire. Her empty stores required more than a respite to fill; she needed sustenance, which meant a hunt. Now that Surda had in essence annexed Feinster, there was no cause to fret over her being spotted by locals; this would not prevent him from worrying over her welfare, but it lessened his concern. If all but another dragon attacked her, she would dispatch them with great ease and they would become part of her meal.

The darkness of his tent was a welcome relief from the harsh sun. Light he normally reveled in was ugly and daunting to his tired eyes. Tossing his armor wherever it might lay, he crawled to his bedroll and flung himself upon it, already sinking into the waking sleep he could not enjoy so fully as the true slumber he'd forsaken after the Agaetí Blödhren. One of many unwelcome side effects of his metamorphosis. Still, rest with a heightened sense of awareness was better than no rest at all.

An hour passed, and as he dreamed of Thorn and Glaedr doing vicious battle in the expanse over Gil'ead he began to feel the aches and weariness ebb from his bones. Perhaps his mind would find no peace, but his body was too wrung-out for it to resist.

The unthinkable happened; someone was approaching. Why, oh why? Didn't they understand how deeply he needed this? There couldn't be a single member of the Varden who had somehow escaped learning of his daring fight against the newborn Shade, Varaug – not to mention the red spilled in the streets from Galbatorix's unwilling soldiers at his hand. Any imbecile could fathom the toll such actions would take; he'd earned his half-sleep. If they expected a warm welcome, they expected too much from him, even if it were Nasuada herself.

The coppery smell of blood stung his nose as light poured in from the tent flap. His stomach clenched. Rolling to his back, he glimpsed a thin figure clad in light armor outlined by the rays, hair spiking at odd angles – and a blade, dripping quietly. The figure advanced.

In one fluid motion, Eragon drew Brisingr from its sheath where it lay nearby and raised it just in time; it clanged loudly against steel. A sharp scraping sound filled the air as the blade was pressed in, sliding along his own's length. With a grunt, he shoved and the figure was thrown backward, but did not loose its footing. Springing to standing for but a second, he lunged, but the figure dipped under the attack, angling for his chest; no, he was too weakened, his reaction would not be timely, something vital would be pierced! Could he dodge to the side to avoid a mortal wound? How could this being match his enhanced speed? Was it an elf?

The assailant grappled him, driving him to the ground; he had not been skewered after all. In two quick movements, hands were encircling both wrists; they were small and thin like the arms they grew from but strong as tempered iron. A stalemate; he could in no way angle his sword from this vantage point to strike, but as long as he was being held at bay his opponent was unable to do so, either. Then, as he began to outline a hasty spell in his mind, the head darted in toward his...

And kissed him.

"Mphg!" he cried out into the connection – what manner of perverse attack was this? Was it intended to besmirch his honor? But perhaps it hadn't been an assassination; the invader never once struck to kill. At the next slight movement against him, he felt a startling familiarity in the visceral contact, and opened his mind the barest crack to test his theory.

_'Good morning, Shur'tugal.'_

Only then did he use a sudden heft to roll the two of them over, pinning his would-be attacker to the ground with knees on thighs and hands on forearms. Now that their positions were reversed and his back was to the meager light from the edges of his tent-flap, he could just make out the individual he'd expected.

"You..."

"Is this how you greet all your lovers? With flash of steel and forcible restraint? Very curious... but I'm not altogether sure that I dislike it."

The broad smile on Elva Shiningbrow's face betrayed no hint of remorse. Even so, it took him a round ten seconds to decide it truly was she whom he was observing.

"By Volund... what have you done?"

"Done?" she asked, blinking innocently up at him. "It appears you shall be the one perpetrating misdeeds this day, if one were to judge by our positions."

Inwardly cursing her precocious nature, Eragon stood and stalked the length of his tent before whirling on her, an admonition ready on his tongue – but he was struck dumb by the sight of her. Further change had been wrought within the young witch-child since their last meeting. Her height had possibly doubled, her shoulders and hips widened, and her face was almost beyond recognition; no longer did she bear the rounded, simplified features of youth, but vestiges remained. He could not forget that in a literal sense, she would not be a woman for another fourteen years; her aging was unnaturally accelerated by her strange, unconscious manipulation of magic. Still, it was difficult to argue with what had become of her.

"You approve?" she said in a low tone, twirling as if merely trying on a lovely new skirt she'd found at the market. "It's a betterment in some ways, and cumbersome in others. Quite a mixed blessing, this adulthood."

"I...!"

Her grin danced with mirth. "Didn't I declare myself capable of matching you year for year?"

As her mocking violet eyes bored into him, he shook himself and glanced at her clothing; light armor, as he'd noticed before, over tunic, breeches and heavy boots. She was fitted for battle, echoing Arya's typical accoutrements. Upon her brow she wore a bandana similar to the one her temporarily-altered form had sported during the Blood-Oath Celebration to conceal her telling silver sigil, and long black hair was tied up and out of the way, creating the spiny effect he'd glimpsed. When he again looked to her weapon, he at once identified it as the dagger he'd bade Rhunön fashion for her – and it was indeed caked with drying fluid of men.

"How... did your blade come to be so smeared with death?"

"The same way any blade does; through use." She gave it a flick and droplets spattered the ground, reducing its coating. "You were not the only dragon-marked representative of the Varden fighting this day, my Eragon."

"You, fighting? Why?"

Her eyebrows drew together. "You ask the most trifling questions. Why do _you _fight, hmm? Why do any of us? Why is the sky azure and the land verdant? Come now."

Finally able to suppress his shock at this reunion and her changed form, he cleared his throat and said, "Then you've found a warrior to train with? That is a relief. I had worried after giving it to you that... well, that it would do you little good if you had no knowledge of its-"

"I believe I mentioned when last we spoke that Solembum had conceded to give me a few pointers," she said, shifting her gaze from him to her dagger. She produced a handkerchief from behind her breastplate – one stained by sweat, but otherwise clean – and polished away the crimson liquid. "As you'll recall, that was some weeks ago. I'm an unparalleled master of the implement now, so says my tutor."

Then, as the gore-free weapon caught the light, he found himself startled. "That mark. In the ancient language, it's... oh, Elva, was it really necessary for you to add insult atop injury? I feel ashamed enough to be going on with, as you're aware."

"No, Eragon." Her smile became gentler, though her luminescent eyes still held that haughty smugness. "You will continue to regret what you did to me until you lay cold in your grave, and I'll not coddle you, not shrink from reminding you to take greater care with the fates of others."

"Elva..."

"But in this case, it was not my _sole_ reason. You gave this to me to act as interim guardian while we were apart, did you not? What other title could it bear?"

He squinted at the symbol: _Skölir_, or "shield". The very word he'd misused when accidentally turning her into a focus for all sorrow among the Varden had been bestowed upon her primary mode of defense. Soon thereafter he forced his eyes away.

"Why do you pout, old friend?" she asked him lightly, stalking over and rapping him on the shoulder with enough force to bruise any mortal man. "Skölir has done all you intended and more. Do not bemoan its name."

"Hmm." After another moment, still unable to look at her, he murmured, "It is... apt, I suppose. Not that it makes me any fonder."

"As you like it." Shrugging, she stepped back. "Now, tell me honestly... how do I look?"

"Older."

"Many thanks," she said flatly. "I was fishing for something along the lines of 'elegant' or 'comely'. Perhaps 'buxom' might have been overly hopeful, given my slight frame, but..."

Eragon laughed ruefully as he walked over and sheathed his sword. "You haven't changed at all. Not underneath that spindly exterior."

"_Spindly?"_ When he laughed again, she scowled at him. "Neither have you grown – particularly in maturity. Still an uncouth _knurlhiem_."

"And you've gained the wisdom of sages in a few brief weeks? Bah! _You're_ still the tiny, bothersome waif with a lewd mind that I met in the northern forests."

"Really? I bested you in combat, didn't I? Is this a feat that waif could have accomplished?"

His smile faltered, and hers grew smug. She had; it was difficult for him to admit, and though he might rationalize that he had a long way to go before he was up to full fighting strength once more, the fact remained that she had deflected his attack and held him at bay, sneaking in for an intimate gesture before he could gather himself to rebuff.

"I can't believe you kissed me."

"I can't believe you let me," she tittered, sheathing her purple blade at last and striding to him, hands on hips. "Losing your touch, Argetlam?"

"Losing my tether is more accurate."

Her poisonous eyes blinked and she frowned sadly; dimly, he registered she'd wedged her mind into his and beheld his exhaustion, but he couldn't bring himself to snap at her. "Oh... but I see now, your stores of energy have been depleted most completely from today's events. I apologize, Ebrithil, I... yes, I should have been aware of your state even before I stepped brazenly into your tent. You were ill-prepared to thwart my wiles."

"As if it matters in the slightest to you."

"Of course it does," she said as she moved to the tent flap. Once there, she turned and shot a smirk over her shoulder. "What sport can be enjoyed properly when the prey doesn't have a fighting chance? We'll revisit the issue when you've recovered."

Just as she was ducking out, he barked, "Elva!"

"Yes, betrothed?"

His inner mind howled with frustration. Must she be so very impossible? "I am glad to see you, and unharmed. Now go away."

The corners of both eyes crinkled. "Away I go."

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Eragon determinedly held himself in his state of rest until the hour of the evening meal arrived. Even then, he merely emerged to have a light supper of bread and cheese and a hastily-concocted mushroom stew, transferred some niggling power to the belt of Beloth the Wise, and returned to his bedroll. As long as no pressing business approached him, he knew full well that his greatest responsibility as a Dragon Rider was to be amply readied for his next battle. Anything less was unsatisfactory and reckless.

Soon after, he was aware of Saphira rejoining him and curling up next to his tent. She made no move to disturb him, merely sent him a vague emotion of bemusement and contentment before sleeping herself. He was glad to have her so nearby once more.

Nightmares besieged him during the night, drawing him down into the grip of trance. Ghastly dreams of Oromis dead, of Murtagh speaking in Galbatorix's voice... of fields of entrails at his feet and scores of Shades advancing on he and Arya, on Roran and Orik and Nasuada. Through it all, Glaedr lamented his lot in life, wailing to the heavens from inside the Eldunarí that served as home and prison for his soul. It was most taxing, and he came back to his surroundings sheathed in perspiration, gasping for breath.

The images were no more, flickering and fading behind his eyes, but still their memory haunted. It was a wretched world he inhabited where all must die around him, slain by those with a thirst for power beyond what they were worthy of wielding. He shifted to rise, to splash a few handfuls of water on his face and thereby banish the horrific scenes.

Something weighted him down. Instinctively, he raised a hand to remove the obstruction and was unsurprised to find Elva's head beneath his palm.

_This again,_ he thought as he peered down at her. Her hair had been unpinned and fanned across her back, and her warrior's outfit had been replaced by a simple crimson dress. In the corner of the tent lay her headband and the belt supporting her sheath piled next to a pair of traveling sandals. Eragon stroked the crown of her head and listened to her contented sigh, and he smiled.

_Oh, Cursed-By-Blessing... so very much and yet so very little of you has transformed._

That thought, however, forcibly brought about another: how much she had transformed outwardly. It had been sweet – if inconvenient – for her to curl up on his chest in his treetop living quarters within the borders of Ellesméra, when she was hardly tall as his knees. If such a small thing brought the tortured girl any wisp of happiness, then why deny it to her? Alas, now...

It was a plain truth that Elva was superficially older. Perhaps only a few weeks had passed since he saw her at Roran's wedding, but her body had lengthened, gained curves it once was devoid of. To be lying beside any woman in this way, no matter relationship or true age or what have you, carried very specific implications that could not be easily dismissed. What would he do if a guard came bearing news or commands? Implore them to wait outside the tent and pray that none were around when she stole away to witness their apparent indiscretion? It would not do.

"Wake now," he whispered, grasping her shoulder. "I'll not relent to your pursuits."

"Hmnh..." She shifted in place, arm tightening around his bare chest... and when he felt her own grinding into his, soft and yielding through the single layer of fabric, he could not stave off the heat flaring in his face. This would not do in the slightest!

"_Elva!"_

Her head snapped up a few inches, violet eyes blinking dully. Saphira's mark shimmered upon her brow; he'd not seen it yet against her more mature features, and he noticed that it had stayed the same size even as the rest of her did not. It went a long way to reduce how unnerving such a blight was, but its presence still made the bandana necessary.

"What's wrong?"

"Elva, you cannot be here," he hissed urgently. "Come, you must find your way back to your own tent before light."

"Why not?" She again lowered her cheek to his chest, kneading against him. "Oh, you feel so exquisite... when the time is right for you to take me as your wife, imagine what a fantastic encounter shall await us!"

"Please, Elva!"

"Relax," she laughed easily. "I'll not sully your reputation, Shadeslayer. Can we not enjoy sharing the warmth of our bodies for an hour?"

"No, I don't believe that is a wise course of action!"

Her eyes raised to peer at him, a bemused expression in place. "What on earth is the matter with you? This never seemed to bother you before." Then he felt her mind brush his, no more than testing their connection – and she drew back in shock. _"O-oh!"_

"What now?"

"I... this disconcerts you when it once did not. Highly! Goodness, my changed appearance seems to have made a greater difference than I initially suspected."

Eragon averted his eyes from her, staring intently at the upper corner of his tent. "There's a... possibility that you're correct."

Seconds passed as Elva stared down at him from a sitting position and he refused to return her gaze. He braced himself for her to pounce, to deflect a kiss or wandering hands. But when he at last felt her touch, it was upon his own hand, both of hers enclosing it.

"What have we lost?" she whispered. "You know from your own journey through my mind that... that being next to you, it was one of my deepest joys. For it to be denied to me because of so small a thing..."

He knew. He knew how desperately she missed it – and he had as well, after a fashion. It was nice to have someone to hold, independent of the circumstances. That it was no longer appropriate that they do so sickened his heart as it did for her, but to no avail; one cannot change the past.

Now her hands were trailing up his chest, and he stiffened, teeth clenched. Seemingly, she could not fight her true nature. When her lips parted, he expected to hear words of wooing, or for them to simply mash into his. Instead, she spoke haltingly.

"Will you... accept me as I am, then? If you can no longer think of us as friends, then take me as more. We could – and we have, back when... Eragon, don't you see that I'd rather rend my own gut than be kept at arm's length from my master?"

He grasped her forearms roughly and forced her back, saw her flinch when he did so. "To even fathom such a deed is... it's grotesque. You know my feelings on this. We cannot, and we shall never a second time. Do you hear?"

"Then hold me!" she pleaded. "Hold me for no other reason than I am warm, and you are cold! Only do not cast me away!"

Eragon could not believe his ears. Where had her resolve gone? Her caustic wit, her playful flirtations? "It isn't... we... Elva, we are ill-suited for anything of the kind."

"How I have missed you!" she urged, eyes narrowing as she fought back an emotional display that would have undermined her words. "Our bond is one you cannot pretend is nonexistent, Master. Would you force me out into the night when this is where I belong?"

"It is _not_ where you belong!" He took several steadying breaths, then released her hands. "You... expect too much from me."

"I expect nothing other than for you to acknowledge the bond. Beyond that, I am resigned."

As she waited for his answer, she placed herself in the respectful kneeling position of an apprentice, fists on her knees, eyes pointed down at them. He lingered over indecision, and she held fast. Perhaps in the time they had spent apart, she had matured in some small ways other than structurally. His concerns remained about not only what rumors could spread of their spending evenings in the same bedroll, but also what might transpire between them in the night... and yet there she sat, yearning for him to embrace her, for anything he could give.

"Go."

"Ebrithil-"

"I acknowledge our bond," he told her gently, sorrowfully. "I care for you, earnestly, and I hope you understood that to begin with. But please, Elva... it is not proper for you and I to..."

When he found he could not finish that thought without the wave of nausea breaching his defenses, he fell silent. One minute stretched on as if it were a myriad. Then, in slow and deliberate movements, Elva went to her things and outfitted herself to depart. Immediately following when she had pulled tight the straps on her second sandal, she returned to his side and placed a hand on either side of his jaw.

"I'll not give up," she promised him soberly, twin orbs of disquieting radiance piercing through him. "You've won this battle, but a long and bloody war lies ahead of you, Shadeslayer – and I am not referring to the Varden or that pest Galbatorix."

"_Waíse hljödhr__,_ little one!" he begged of her, teeth clenching. "Must you go on so?"

"Aye. I shall not be waylaid by your reticence." Then she stood, her back turned to him, and said in a sharp voice, "I warned you not to forget where my heart lies. Upsetting yourself because you disregarded my words... that is upon your head, not mine."

The lithe adolescent that was now Elva swept from the tent in two quick strides, and Eragon found himself alone to agonize over his plight.

___  
>To Be Continued<em>

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><p>NOTE TIME: So maybe this will make some people happy, maybe it'll piss people off instead... but either way, I decided I wasn't through with Elva yet! A lot of you asked for a sequel and I couldn't get the ideas out of my head - especially after I finished Brisingr. Ready to see Shiningbrow turn into a force of nature? This one's going to be longer by a few chapters so I hope you've got the stomach for some rocketshippy Inheritance goodness!<p> 


	2. Colloquy

_Chapter Two – Colloquy_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Dawn broke far sooner than Eragon expected; apparently, according to Saphira (whom had borne witness to all that transpired in the night, much to his chagrin), Elva had thrust herself into his arms several hours before he had awoken, and therefore by the time he had convinced her to leave there remained little of the night to spend resting. Regardless, he at last felt moderately refreshed and able to participate in rebel activities.

_Shall we ask Nasuada what she wishes of us?_

_Don't talk to me,_ he fired at his scaly partner via their mind-link. _You know good and well that you ought to have woken me when that, that... _urchin_ tiptoed into my quarters uninvited!_

Saphira snorted a plume of flame from where she was waiting for him to finish his breakfast. As a measure of solidarity, he had simply gone to the nearest mess tent and supped with whomever else happened to be there. A few Varden had hurried along their own repast when they saw the dragon approaching, but most of them were content to greet the pair of them cheerfully and ask one or two conversational questions. Though he felt a pang of guilt at ingesting the lengths of fried pork, given his vow to abstain from animal flesh whenever possible, it was kinder than if he were to refuse them and insult the soldiers' cooking. After all, the bacon could no longer be put back on the pig.

_You bleat needlessly over small details,_ she accused. _What does it matter if Shiningbrow spent an evening curled against you? Is it no different than before, when we trained with the elves? Is it no different than when you nestle beneath my wing? We are all of us linked through the silver mark._

_It _is _different. _She_ is different._

_Because she is no longer a child but an adult? Neither of us were adults when I hatched, but we have since become so. Will you grumble as if beset by scale rot when next we sleep side by side?_

_You are a dragon, _he told her with a smirk. _But Elva and I are both of the same species. I wonder if you would so readily snuggle up beside Thorn?_

_I would not,_ she blustered, affronted. _He is of stunted mind and under the control of the Egg Breaker. I would sooner cave his skull in with my tail than-_

_Oh, never you mind. I'll just have to concede that this is a woefully human problem and stop asking for your advice on the subject._

_That suits me perfectly fine, _she shot back with a disdainful growl low in her throat. A few of the other starving infantrymen tensed when they heard this until Eragon waved at them. It would be another age before humans became remotely comfortable in the presence of dragons again... if they did not become extinct entirely first.

When he had bathed and used magic to remove the stubble from his face, Eragon dressed and diligently relocated another drop of power to Beloth the Wise's diamonds before setting out. He aimed to have a vast well of gramarye at his disposal so when next his might flagged, he would not be forced to dip into the reservoir hidden inside Aren, the ring that had once belonged to Brom. The enemy would not find him so unprepared.

"Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjartskular to see Lady Nightstalker!" rumbled the towering Urgal outside her tent. Eragon did his best not to glance nervously at the creature; his hatred of their warlike species might have waned, but he had no desire to provoke a confrontation. He felt a touch safer when he caught sight of one of Blödhgarm's guard-elves slipping between tents; even if some hellbent Urgal sought to better his standing in his tribe by attacking the famed Firesword, they would never make it that far.

"Enter." When Eragon did, Nasuada's swarthy face lit up when she glimpsed him. "Ah! It is good to find you looking well, Shadeslayer; all of us were troubled when we neither saw nor heard from you yesterday."

When he glanced around the tent, he observed what "all of us" entailed; ranged on either side of her chair he found her adviser and battle-commander Jörmundur, Arya Dröttningu (whom nodded at him slightly), the Urgal chieftain Nar Garzhvog, Saphira's head poking in the side to contribute to their summit if needed, and a young boy who was likely one of King Orrin's pages. The boy scurried out the moment he'd been spotted by the Rider.

"Time heals... _most_ wounds," he said, amending the traditional phrase to be more truthful. Then he twisted his hand over his breast in the elven sign of fealty, bowing as he did so. "My strength returns after such a harrowing siege. I've come to see what might be done, My Lady."

"Not much at present," she admitted tiredly, running a hand over her hair. Moreso than ever before, she looked drained. He noticed the bandages on her arms were fresh, and decided that Angela must have been by to see to her self-inflicted gashes. Might they never heal? "You'll be pleased to hear that we have implemented a temporary government here in Feinster made up of equal numbers of Varden and former Imperial soldiers that Du Vrangr Gata have deemed trustworthy. This will enable us to depart, secure in the knowledge that we shan't be overtaken from the aft. When I am satisfied that order is in place, you know our next objective."

"Belatona."

"Precisely. From there, we can be best positioned to ford the Jiet and tackle Dras-Leona."

"I expect that siege to be uneventful," Jörmundur spoke up, nodding at Eragon. "Given that you and your cousin have felled the foul beasts that once called nearby Helgrind home, I shouldn't wonder if the entire city has had their faith shaken."

"Too true," Eragon said. "I'm sure when the priests put out human sacrifices that are still there come morning, they'll be a bit demoralized. How soon do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning, if all goes smoothly."

"I expect it shall," Nasuada added. "Those loyal to Lady Lorana have now been given messages telling them she has willingly given over control to us, and any who did not believe the messages have spoken with her personally, allaying their doubts. Also, those under Empire control have either been imprisoned or executed – and mostly the latter, I'm afraid. They make it next to impossible for us to treat them with kindness."

"It is the way of war," Jörmundur muttered.

Eragon dipped his head. "Then you'll be requiring nothing of me in the meantime?"

"No," she said with a slight smile. "Rest and mentally prepare for our coming march northward. That is all you need concern yourself with, barring any unforeseen attack."

"I'll be more than fit for our next offensive. By your leave, My Lady."

"Gokukara watch over you, Shadeslayer."

As he strode from the grand crimson tent, transferring yet more power to his belt, he heard quickened footsteps behind him. One swift glance backward told him it was Arya.

"Eragon," she said simply.

"What is it?" he asked as he stopped and turned to face her properly. "Did Nasuada forget something?"

"I..." She took a deep breath, as if she had rushed after him without pausing to consider her words beforehand. "I only meant to ask how you fare."

"I fare well. And you?"

"Not as well as you, I fear." Her delicate, catlike features took on a pained cast, slanted eyebrows meeting in the middle. "I wondered if... might we talk for a bit?"

"We might."

They wound through row after row of tents, picking their way around battered wagons and all manner of mounts, giving a large pile of droppings a wide berth. Once they had distanced themselves from the royal seat of power and most others who knew of them (aside from the guard-elves), she spoke. "Our battle of late."

"Aye."

"It plagues me far more than these skirmishes have in the past. Perhaps because of our talk when fleeing through the Empire on foot, or perhaps..."

"What is it, Arya? My ears are always open to you."

Again she hesitated, fingertips steepled in front of her. "The Shade, Varaug. I dispatched him with my own strike, something that reportedly can seldom be done if the victor wishes to survive. Yet here I walk beside you, and I wonder... to what end?"

"We each have vanquished one of their number," he reminded her. "By teamwork. Alone, either of us would have perished against either of them, I'm sure."

"I remember." In spite of what she said, her dissatisfaction remained evident in her voice. "Why, though? Why have I survived this long? I am not so prideful to assume I carry any significance in this fated confrontation between Dragon Riders. By all rights, the Shade should have bested me. Why then do I keep pace with you as we stroll through the camp, when Osthato Chetowä is-"

He waited for her to finish the thought, but it never came to pass. When he risked a glance over, he was alarmed to find tears sliding down her face. Was this truly Arya, the seasoned swordswoman with the dispassionate poise he had come to know and swoon over since rescuing her from Gil'ead? But it wasn't as if he begrudged her. Oromis's death was not only a crippling blow to the Varden's chances, but also a personal loss for all elves, and himself. The last of the true Riders and a great man had met his end... and by the very sword Eragon had once wielded.

"Galbatorix will pay for his crimes," he assured her at last, putting an arm around her back to the far shoulder, turning her away from distant crowds so they could not see her face; he knew she would do the same for him in a similar situation. Nothing undermines a warrior's confidence more than being witnessed as anything other than ardent. "As will my half-brother."

"My apologies, Shadeslayer," she choked out in a voice so quiet he could scarcely hear. "I shame you with my grief. Such displays are better off if not displayed at all."

Frowning deeply, Eragon brought forth his magic and uttered the spell that would bend the light around them, causing all nearby to see nothing more than air. Then, gently, he said to her, "Purge it all and take as long as you may. How could I disapprove when I feel our loss so freshly myself?"

He guided her from the middle of the path to the side so none would inadvertently trample them. As he did so, he perceived Arya striving to shut out her feelings once more, to rebuild the wall of cool detachment she normally maintained with ease... and she was not succeeding. Once they were out of the way, he raised an invisible hand to her invisible head and drew it into his shoulder, and she wept unrestrained into him as she had upon first learning of the Mourning Sage's fate. The magical curtain of safety was a boon as no one – not even he – could watch her in this moment of weakness.

Minutes passed, over ten. Her racking fits gave way to sniffling sobs, quieter and less overpowering. When she felt his lips fall to her head, a simple gesture to reassure, she drew back suddenly, hands pushing into his chest.

"No, Eragon. You... this is not what I-"

"Sorry," he laughed awkwardly. "Just trying to comfort you. Nothing else was intended."

"You must be tiring," she said, anxious to change the subject. "All this magic you're wasting on such a trivial use as-"

"_Maela, Vinr-eka."_

A sharp intake of breath signaled her surprise. "Eragon, how c-can- no, please do not, have we not been down this road?"

"Do not what?"

"That..." The humid air around them was silent. Though he was glad of the privacy from all others, it made interpreting her feelings difficult. "I gather you are not aware of the hidden meaning attached to the term you just used, and therefore I won't hold your ignorance of the ancient language against you. But please, take more care in future!"

"What, _maela_? Does it not mean to be quiet?"

"Not that," she whispered pointedly. As his mouth opened, she hastily followed up with, "and refrain from saying it again; I'm quite certain I'd rather not hear it from your lips twice."

He contemplated this, then said, "Sorry, Arya, I'm confused. Surely if it translates as 'friend of mine', then it can't be-"

"By the Menoa Tree, Eragon, it means '_lover'!_ Honestly, if you were not the living embodiment of all our hopes and dreams, I would disembowel you for your ineptitude!"

As the perturbed Arya marched off at a fast clip, Eragon ended the spell so it would no longer shield her; she could reactivate it with her own energy if she wished, but the rapidly-growing distance would put too much of a strain on his reserves. Meanwhile, he allowed his own body to continue being enshrouded. He'd rather no one see exactly how scarlet his cheeks were if he could help it.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Once his composure was back in place, Eragon went back to his tent and practiced the Rimgar – several times, in order to alleviate the humiliation over his misuse of the elven tongue.

_A curious nuance, _Saphira mused as she watched him idly from nearby, licking her claws clean. _Fusing the words 'friend' and 'me' shouldn't result in another meaning altogether. It is unfortunate that you were to learn of it thusly, for both yourself and Arya._

_Unfortunate indeed – I'd prefer to be flayed alive than have her think I'm still pining after her._

_But aren't you?_

That was the point at which Eragon decided it was time to practice his swordsmanship, and for Saphira do to anything but tag along. She winged off into the foothills of the Spine, griping about "two-legs and their petty squabbles".

The practice fields were set up at the eastern end of the camp. Eragon took his time getting there, kicking at stray pebbles and staring up at the sun. His cousin Roran and old Horst the smithy greeted him from across the way when he arrived, both sparring with spiked maces; neither of them counted the mace as a weapon of choice, but it paid to be prepared when on the battlefield. At any moment, a fallen enemy's arms may suddenly become your only option.

When he approached the area reserved for swords, however, he was dismayed to see the Varden shrinking from him in droves. No one wanted to be pitted against the Rider, especially now that he had reportedly slain not one, but _two _Shades; it mattered little that some elven ambassador had been on hand to witness the killings. Eragon wanted nothing more than to post royal decrees that would clearly state how both events had unfolded, but knew it would be futile; the people needed a hero, and were all too ready to attribute as many heroic deeds as possible to him, truth be damned.

"Really, I'm not a monster," he pleaded with them tiredly. "All I ask for is someone to spar with. I shall dull my blade with magic so it cannot pierce you!"

"Eta, Argetlam," said a dwarf with a hearty chuckle. "Mine axe will not be torn asunder by your unstoppable Rider's blade – I'll have had it at mine hip for forty-seven years tomorrow!"

"Then use a sword! Surely I won't be without any sort of-"

"I'll take you on."

Eragon whirled to find Elva advancing on him, a bold, determined glare in her eyes. What was she playing at? He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it; if he spurned her, said she was beneath his notice, it could provoke her to anger and ensure she would attack to prove she wasn't. If he politely declined, he might be ridiculed by either her or the crowds – which would prove detrimental to Nasuada's assurances that he was invincible and unflappable. But if he challenged her...

The fact was, he had no desire to harm Elva. Based on his observations of the skill with which Arya and the other elven women fought, the assumptions his younger self had made about the "weaker sex" had long since evaporated into the ether. Even so, she was bonded to him through the gedwëy ignasia – beyond that, she held a high position in his heart as something close to family. He no more wished to strike at her than he would at Saphira or Roran.

"What troubles you?" she asked in her usual mocking tone, adjusting a strap on one of her greaves. She was festooned more suitably for assault now, he assumed because of training; nearby, he spotted Angela the herbalist and Solembum in his feline form watching with snide amusement. If he knew them as well as he thought he did, they were acutely interested in the outcome, but wouldn't dream of letting on so.

"Nothing, Shiningbrow," he said to her carefully. "But I wish to cross swords today."

"Then I'll take up a sword, if that will make you feel like a man."

A ripple of disbelief ran through the crowd. This was deteriorating with great speed, and he felt a flicker of anger at Elva. She was intentionally trying to goad him into either fighting, or backing out – to prove herself a worthy fighter against her master, or to make a laughingstock out of him and thereby prompt him to admit she had an inordinate amount of nerve.

"By all means, use whatever weapon best suits your style," he said with a tight nod. "But I trust by now you can dull your Rider's blade? I refuse to trade lethal blows with my apprentice."

"_Gëuloth du knífr,"_ she whispered so low that he doubted anyone with mere human ears caught it. Once she had run her fingers along both edges of Skölir and Eragon had done the same for his own, she held it out and to the side, placing her left hand over her chest and making a grand bow, haunting eyes never turning away from his. "Ebrithil."

"Argetbrun."

That was all the warning he was to receive; she vaulted into the air, bringing the tip of her blade straight down toward his eyes. With an easy gesture, he raised Brisingr and deflected the attack, but she did not stop there; with a twist he would have thought beyond the capability of her limbs, she drove her knee toward his ribcage. Only a quick backpedal allowed him to escape bruising; she was not to be handled lightly after all.

Another flurry of attacks met him, the violet brightsteel flashing in the sunlight as it veered toward his head, his breast, his bicep, his breast a second time, his knee... he lost track of her targets, though he deflected all. Onlookers gathered from not just among those training, but other Varden who had heard tell that Shadeslayer had met a worthy opponent. It was more challenge than any but Murtagh had given him, to be sure, and he marveled at the progress Elva had made while he was in Farthen Dûr and Ellesméra. Of what material was this child constructed?

She began to tire; he saw it clearly, noted the sweat rolling down from beneath her headband, the collar of her tunic crimped from dampness, the heaving of her chest, the tiny pink tongue wetting her lips. Pressing his advantage, he began to respond to her blows in kind, but landed not a one; she was not so fatigued yet as to drop her guard. Unable to win, she strove for the only victory that remained to her: a refusal to give ground.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes had stretched on since the beginning of their spectacular match, the time came when she ducked low and lunged upward with intent to pierce him through; he stepped to the side and swatted her across the back with the flat of his blade, sending her breathless to the ground. Seconds passed as she shuddered and shook, straining for air that would not come. He muttered a spell and she could breathe again, and she rolled to her back – to find Brisingr's tip at her throat.

"Yield?"

There was a slight growl, and he was positive her eyes glowed brighter for an instant. Then she averted them and muttered, "I yield."

A cheer went up from the crowd as he held out his hand; Roran and Horst were whistling. Her lips scrunched up, as if she were considering spitting at him, then she accepted the help and he jerked her to her feet.

"Elva... that was-"

"Do not patronize," she hissed. "I'll set fire to your hair."

"Come now," he sighed, "did you really expect to best me with only a dagger? I've been training with a sword longer than you've been alive."

"Exaggerations do not become you, Shadeslayer. And this dagger is more important to me than any other weapon could hope to be." Her eyes turned back to him, boring inward, furious. "But you didn't have to swat me with the flat. That was a most undignified defeat."

"You'd rather I struck you with the edge?" he demanded as they both sheathed their blades. "Even dulled, your bruise would have been far deeper, I may have broken your back!"

"At least it would have been a respectable break, don't you agree? Either of us could have healed it. Instead, you belittle my challenge by ending the bout with a _jape._ You have my undying gratitude for that, my _master."_

"Enough," he snapped, and her eyes narrowed further. She meant to be angry and nothing would likely change that, so he said, "You fought well, and I am proud of your level of skill. Had you been facing down any but a Rider, or perhaps a Shade-"

"But I still lost."

"Aye."

"Then I shall train harder until I can bring you to your knees. Expect that day to come soon."

And with those frost-ridden parting words, Elva strode from the training field, shoulders thrown back. It could not be said that she did not cut a striking figure.

_**~~~~~~~~  
><strong>To Be Continued..._

* * *

><p>NOTESES: So far everybody seems to like it, so hey, I'm glad! As you can see, Elva's come a long, long way from the pitiful angry girl she was the last time he saw her; intensive weapons training and a little growing up along the way. More battles in this one, that's for sure. Hope you guys enjoy and feel free to ask me questions if you want. See you in chapter three!<p> 


	3. Thaumaturgy

_Chapter Three – Thaumaturgy_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

The remainder of the day passed without notable event. Eragon supped with Roran and Katrina, speaking both of the trials of days past and his mock-battle with the young changeling.

"She is... something else," Katrina told him delicately. "Where is she from?"

"Farthen Dûr," he said glumly, wishing to be done with this topic but understanding their curiosity. "Elva is... I suppose she's something of a disciple of mine, since I was feckless enough to have blessed her before I knew what I was doing. Now she and her actions are my burden to bear until we are parted by death."

"Her eyes spark like witch-fire," Roran said, forcing a smile that he did not truly feel. "Has she always been that way, or is it the magics?"

"The magic, believe you me. She wears that headband at all times to hide Saphira's marking; the eyes, however..."

Katrina frowned, hand against her swelling stomach as she rose to fetch more mead. It was of unpleasant flavor, but decent enough to quench their thirst. "Poor dear. I'm positive I've seen her around the camp now and then, but until today she was just another body among thousands."

"She's thrust herself onstage now," Roran grunted around a mouthful of potato. "Facing off against a Rider and lasting for more than a few sands of the hourglass? All will wish to know who she is and why she's so powerful."

Eragon gritted his teeth. "Unfortunately, you're probably right. It was a silly thing to do, shattering her anonymity like that just to prove something."

"Aye. Still... that kitten gave you a run for your gold, Cousin." Roran's bemused grin was obscured by his scrubby beard, but not enough to prevent Eragon from chafing at the sight of it. "Horst and I expected you to have her face-down in the mud far earlier. She's got the speed of a demon, she does. How did such a tiny girl come to be so fleet of foot?"

"Yes," Eragon replied sourly. "That's what I'd like to know..."

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

The sky was overcast and dreary the following morn. Eragon packed his few belongings and prepared to depart, dressing in only light armor but carrying Brisingr at his hip in the event they were accosted en route. All else, including the tent, wound up in Saphira's saddlebags.

However, as he made to stash his things, he was startled to find Elva sitting in the hollow behind Saphira's neck so usually reserved for him. Her bandana was in place but her hair was down, trailing behind her on the light breeze. Violet orbs were looking into the distance, likely at something he could not see. Deciding to ignore her for the moment and therefore avoid ill-advisedly feeding her swelled ego, he began shoving various items in various bags, being especially careful not to disturb the mourning Glaedr.

"I forgive you."

"Pardon?"

"I forgive you," she repeated, voice as distant as her gaze. "For your degradation on the proving grounds. It was an attempt to spare me physical pain, as I have deduced – even though I still wince when I stoop to put on boots."

"It will fade soon enough, I'm sure," he said lightly, reaching up for her hand. She did not take it. "Is that all, or will you hold my dragon hostage until you're satisfied?"

_I'll buck her free if she insists too adamantly,_ Saphira promised to both of them.

"You should have fought me with all your strength," she went on, brow furrowing. "And you should have struck me true; I wasn't withholding anything. It would have been kinder if you _had _broken my back and mended it later."

"If you say so."

"Ebrithil, how can I prove my worth to you if you'll not meet my challenge without pandering?" Only now did she face him, a weary frustration behind her features, only partially-masked. "Oromis... he commanded that I treat you as my master with a respect equal to that of which he demanded. And now that he is-" Her voice caught, but she swallowed thickly and persevered, now speaking as steadily as ever she had. "The master of my master has gone from this plane. It is only you whom I can seek approval from. My bonded mate."

At this last, Eragon heaved a great sigh and said, "Must you ruin your otherwise-commendable words with such talk?"

"You are," she said with a tiny shrug, then gently put her hand against the sleek blue scales beneath her. "We bear the same mark from the same dragon. Until the end of the age will we be drawn to each other by it. Whether or not you reject me, I cannot control."

Eragon chose his words carefully. "I do not reject you as family or as student. Is that not enough? Can we not agree to travel together and share in our lives?"

At last she shot him a smirk, breaking her countenance of melancholy. "Would it be so painful for you to wed me? Still we would travel together, still our lives would be shared – but moreso. Why resist?"

"Elva..."

"Very well, Shadeslayer." Now she propelled herself lightly to the ground, landing with the grace of a gazelle. "I will allow my overtures to be rebuffed on _one condition."_

He crossed his arms as he stared down at the index finger she held aloft. "You will, eh? And what might that condition be?"

"That you embrace me without acting as if it burns you. If you can do that, then I will be glad to resume our wary friendship."

Behind the veneer of her casual words he felt the steel, the unwavering determination. This was the most crucial aspect of their negotiations to her, and he could not begrudge her – not when he knew how being distanced from him hurt her. In a rush of movement, he swept her up from her feet and into his arms, crushing her with the might of an Urzhad. Her startled squeak and windmilling legs quickly gave way, and she hugged him back, hands pressing into his back with a tenacity that surprised him; she truly was growing stronger with every passing eve.

"Eragon," she sighed into his shoulder, words strained from the ferocity of his hold. "This is more like it."

"But the next time I wake up with you in my bedroll, I'll feed you to Saphira."

_No thank you,_ Saphira told them. _Too stringy; she'd hardly be a mouthful._

Elva harrumphed good-naturedly.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Their trek northward with the Varden lasted through to the night, stopping only for one hour at midday to eat and relieve themselves. Eragon and Saphira glided westward toward the Spine, rising high enough to glimpse its mountaintops, all the while with Eragon aching to return home to Palancar Valley. Alas, the home would not be there to await him even if he were to abandon his quest and make it his new destination; Carvahall was no more.

For part of the afternoon, they reunited with the ground and began walking alongside their fellows. Elva found him within minutes and fell to match his easy stride, and they discussed all manner of things from Sloan's fate in Ellesméra to Arya being the latest on a short list of those who had bested a Shade in mortal combat. To his vexation, Elva steered the conversation away from the topic of the elven princess, a fact he filed away for later reflection.

"So... Eragon, Son Of Brom." She flashed him a quick, wry smile. "Surely that's a weight lifted."

"It is," he admitted freely. "Being sired not by an accursed Forsworn, but instead the founding member of our resistance? I can't begin to describe it."

"All the better reason for that despot to have your old blade," she spat, kicking at a rock with her boot. "He is Morzan's son, not you. Especially fruitful that you should lose that, then come to possess such a keen instrument!"

Eragon drew it for her to examine. "Aye. I'm most fortunate."

"Does..." She seemed slightly embarrassed to be asking, but still asked, "Does it really... when you say its name...?"

"Brisingr," he said quietly enough – and yet it still erupted in blue flames. Her eyes went wide with glee. "Satisfied?"

"Exceedingly! Miraculous and impressive, that; it's almost more worthwhile as a means to turn the spines of your enemies to jelly before a single blow is struck than as an offensive measure."

"It still draws its magic from me," he sighed, ending the spell. "It would be _truly_ miraculous if it could burn on its own. Nevertheless, I'm pleased that it has this... added benefit, I suppose you might name it."

"Mine doesn't do anything of the sort," she said, drawing her blade as he sheathed his. "It's a remarkable piece of craftsmanship, but merely a tool of war and nothing else."

"I wonder if you've worked out that the jewel in the pommel can store magic?"

Her startled gasp said otherwise. "It can?"

"Aye, and a great deal. You'll have to start siphoning off a bit daily."

"I'm... not sure how to do that. Teach me, O Ebrithil?"

Chuckling, he instructed her in that area as they marched on, and also reviewed her other magical training. He was astounded to find what she could do.

"Du Vrangr Gata are a gaggle of twits," Elva laughed as a dozen rocks danced around her head, seemingly with no effort, "but they have their uses. Trianna is adept enough, and with Angela around to make suggestions the two of them managed to keep my education from stagnating."

"Well done, Trianna."

"Also..." She held out her hand, fingers splayed, snapped them together, then twisted the palm around – and when she completed the action, there was a yellow rose there. She held it out to him, and he took it. "For you, my prince."

Eragon grimaced. "Give me one reason not to trod this into the dust."

"Because the yellow rose is a sign of true and steadfast friendship, not romance." She repeated the action, and a bouquet of red and orange blossoms now appeared. "Though if you've changed your mind, dearest..."

"Angvard take you, I _haven't!"_

She snickered merrily and clapped her hands, the roses dissipating. "My apologies, but how could I resist?"

A reluctant smile on his lips, Eragon cuffed her around the shoulder and she stumbled, but did not stop laughing. "That's a fantastic trick, but uses very little magic."

"It's just a levitation," she said in low tones, as if there were charlatans hiding in the eaves of every tree waiting to overhear her trade secrets. "I conjured them before I joined you, then tucked them up one sleeve. Done with speed, none will see them travel – only that they 'appear'. Still, I wouldn't want you to walk away with the impression that all I've been doing is learning how to entertain the masses for a few paltry crowns."

As he watched, awestruck, she held her hand palm-downward over the open ground and began to whisper, never breaking stride. Slowly, tiny particles drifted up to gather underneath, sticking to each other and beginning to form one long rod. When she finished, he found himself looking at a short spear forged in midair entirely from steel.

"Not very useful, as your hands would be a blistered mess if you tried to wield it for longer than a minute. But better than being caught weaponless."

"That's... I... you are truly incredible, Shiningbrow."

With only a slight smile at his compliment, she thrust another hand out and summoned a tree branch, which she caused to melt – it _melted –_ against the center of the shaft. Then she tossed the completed armament to him. The wooden handle was smooth and held no splinters he could see, and the rest was sleek metal.

"Wrap some leather around that, and you'll have a haft that shall never break; iron at its core. It will still require the usual maintenance; I'm no Rhunön." When Eragon gaped at her, she raised an eyebrow and said, "What? Surely you can do this if I can, you're far more learned."

"Perhaps I could," he said, reflecting on the tiny spheres of gold he had magicked from the earth on previous occasion. "Never bothered to think of a spell to do it, not this effectively. But doesn't this cost you a great deal of power?"

"It does," she conceded with a frown. "If we were to run into Galbatorix's minions in the next few seconds, I could erect a few middling wards and otherwise be forced to depend on Skölir. But I doubt that will happen."

"You really shouldn't squander your magic that way," he admonished, and she rolled her eyes upward, resigned to his bellyaching. "Still... as a demonstration of your prowess this once, I must admit... it's quite a feat."

Her grin was just smug enough that he caught it without being overtly boastful. "Indeed, Ebrithil. It's my highest accomplishment thus far, I think. Well, that and my appearance, though that has a lot less to do with my knowledge of gramarye and more to do with..."

He waited for a while after she trailed off before realizing she didn't intend to finish the thought. "To do with...?"

"With you, of course, you dolt." Eragon bristled at her exasperated tone, but didn't interrupt. "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out."

"Evidently I haven't, because I still don't know what you mean."

"I wanted to be more useful to you," she went on, staring away from him and across the plains as they trudged behind the throngs of soldiers and cooks and sorcerers and nobles. "As a warrior, as a magician... as more, if you were amenable – which you aren't, as we are both exhaustively aware, so don't start in on that again or I'll turn your boots to lead."

"Fine," he said, erasing the tirade he'd already begun scribing on the slate of his mind. "Go on."

"It was my most fervent desire to no longer be some petulant child running around your feet. To become a worthy apprentice that could shoulder all your teachings; granted, I've little to learn from you in the way of the blade now that Solembum has taken up that cause, but at least I've learned, have I not?" She risked a glance at him before turning back to the hills of green. "One day, perhaps you can say, 'There is Elva, my student. My greatest success.' One day."

"The day is now, Elva," he said gently, smiling. "Though I hope to soon outdistance that one with 'slaying Galbatorix', which I think we might agree would be the greatest of all."

"Aye, Shadeslayer. It would." Even from her profile, he thought he saw a rouge creeping into the near edge of her cheek. "Are you... certain you mean that?"

"What, that I'm proud of you? Of course I am... though I'm unsure what good that will do, or why you should care so much about my opinion of you."

She turned back to him, her expression inscrutable. As always, he met her unsettling eyes as long as he dared before averting his own. "You created me, Ebrithil. From the ashes of a useless human babe that would have served no purpose other than to feed the carrion eaters, you rebirthed me as a living vessel of magic. Though I have a way to go before I can fully forgive the manner in which it came to pass, I owe my entire being to your compassion of that day in Tronjheim; yours and Saphira's. For all its benefits and expenses, I belong to you, body and soul. And somehow, regardless of how many times I try to impress that upon you, I fail."

It made him more than uncomfortable when she laid it out thusly, but he knew she meant every word. And that disarmed him most dexterously.

"I honestly don't know _what_ to do with you," he told her baldly. "You've grown beyond a small nuisance and into a strong young lady, but... are you a warrior, a magician? Are you even friend or foe? And what must this sort of thing be doing to you? Surely it can't be healthy."

"Verily. Accelerated aging has its pitfalls. Do you know what it's like to wake one morning and find that you have a body twice its previous size and a pool of blood between your legs you can't explain? Ah, I daresay you don't, _sir!"_ Then she threw back her head and cackled long and loud. When she was done, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, she caught the look on his face and faltered. "Are you allright, Master? You've come over a bit peaked."

"Fine," he told her shakily. "Quite fine."

_Two-legs,_ Saphira grumbled, shaking her great head from side to side in an open display of derision. _Always needlessly complicating even the simplest matters._

_**~~~~~~~~  
><strong>To Be Continued..._

* * *

><p>NOTE: Glad to have Obliterator1519, Magma Fyre and Sentinel07 back, thanks for reading! This chapter's more of a break from the drama, a sprinkling of comedy. It was a fun one to write. Trouble ahead, though! To answer Sentinel's question, I alluded to it in the first chapter but she's about 16 at this point. In this chapter she went into a little more detail about how she needed to be more useful to her Master, which is what she was wishing for when she did the accidental-magic thing again so she therefore made herself the exact same age as Eragon is. That was the easiest way to match his skill level in her mind. So however old he is at this point, so is she. Outwardly, anyway, haha.<p> 


	4. Doctrinaire

_Chapter Four – Doctrinaire_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

When at last they made camp, Eragon used magic to quickly set up his own tent, then went about aiding others where he could. The sooner they finished, the more rest they might get before the next day's journey. Once he was satisfied, he made his way to Roran's tent for a late supper and a spot of casual conversation... and was shocked to find their number would be greater than three.

"She said she was invited," Roran muttered in his ear as they both watched Elva chatting with Katrina amiably from the far corner of the tent. "Is it a pack of lies?"

"It is if I'm the one who supposedly invited her." Dropping all pretense, he knocked – rather loudly – at the door of her mind. When she answered, eyes barely flickering in his direction as she continued to chat aloud with the lady of the makeshift house, he asked her, _What in Gûntera's name do you mean by showing up here?_

_I mean to have supper._

_You were invited, were you? By whom?_

_Saphira,_ she told him with an air of triumph. _I visited your quarters and found her curled up by her lonesome, and she told me I might as well go to the Stronghammer tent and wait to break bread with you and family if I desired your company._

_Calling _that_ an invitation is a stretch, even by your standards._

He caught a flash of indignation in her next words. _What do you mean, 'by my standards'? Are you insinuating that I'm pushy?_

Eragon did not answer her mentally, but closed his mind as he motioned for Roran to follow him to the table. "So, Elva," he said with a false smile as he sat. "Where are you kipping these days?"

"With Greta, of course," she told him, equally cheerful as she sipped at her tea. "The doddering hag is always underfoot, but I can't bring myself to resent her; she was the only one who saw fit to raise me. Her vague air of disgust at my supernatural state that she tries so hard to conceal doesn't overshadow that grandmotherly pride of hers, which I suppose is something."

The room was silent. Eragon tried to appear as if undaunted, but Roran and Katrina were visibly nonplussed. When she noticed their stares, a shy smile flitted across her face. "I apologize if that sounds rude. Imagine if you were aged four-and-thirty and one of your parents still looked on you as if you were in diapers. You may love them, but such treatment soon grows from irksome to infuriating."

"By all rights, you _should_ still be in diapers," Eragon reminded her. "Most parents have the luxury of time to adjust to their children's growth. Greta has been forced to watch you go from infancy to womanhood in the span of months."

"It probably would have done my father in," Katrina said, her voice a mixture of amusement and sorrow. "Even when I did come of age, he was still loathe to accept it."

"Aye," Roran echoed sullenly; his own courtship of the butcher's daughter had been met with nothing short of hatred on the man's part, and their announcement of engagement was greeted with open hostility and betrayal. None of this did he say; it was painful enough that the three eldest in the tent remembered it without speaking on the subject.

"Enough of that," Elva sighed, a hand sweeping through her hair anxiously. "How far along are you, Katrina?"

From there, the topic of discourse meandered to names for the child; Eragon grinned when they mentioned "Garrow" as a possibility for a boy. Dinner was served, and they were treated to a semi-detailed account of Orik's coronation (Eragon hedging around some of the more secret rituals of the dwarves). When he mentioned the attempt on his life that had been contrived by the Grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, Elva pounded the blunt end of her knife against the table so hard that the cousins all started.

"I'll see their heads mounted on pikes," she growled. "Every last one of them."

"No need," Eragon told her gently. "Vermûnd has been ostracized from the entire dwarf community; he'll be no further trouble or they will see to his death."

"Inadequate. They presume to seek harm against my master, to stab the last free Rider in the back? Their hearts will be cut out and incinerated before them as they still draw breath!"

"_Vrron, Delva,"_ he shushed her in Dwarvish – making a pun on her name with one of their most common terms of endearment. Her cheeks reddened the tiniest bit at that, but still she clutched the knife and glared at her plate. "They have paid for their crimes. I've witnessed firsthand what it means to be banished from the realm of dwarfkind by the clanmeet, and it... it is a frightful thing. You cease to exist in their eyes."

Elva's breathing slowed, and she took a sip of mead to calm her nerves. "Aye, Master. Even so... this Vermûnd character had best pray he never crosses paths with me, or I'll not be held responsible for my actions."

She then went back to her food, cutting the slab of beef with so much aggression that it took a mere two strokes to reach the plate. Katrina cleared her throat nervously, then asked if anyone wanted more carrots.

When supper was finished, Roran and Eragon were disposing of the refuse while Katrina and Elva tended the dishes (and Eragon confessed himself quite shocked that the girl volunteered to help at all). She must have assumed he was out of earshot, unable to fully comprehend the extent of his Rider-enhanced hearing, for he heard Katrina ask her in a low tone, "You're quite fond of him, aren't you?"

"I... don't follow," she lied.

"Eragon. He's captured your affections like one might poach a hare."

There was a long moment with nothing but the sound of dishes being scrubbed clean. Then Elva said, "It's possible your assumption is not entirely erroneous."

"I'll take that to be a 'yes'," she laughed. "Any woman who gets _that _worked up when a man's life has been endangered must be smitten."

"There's no use in dwelling on it," Elva sighed. "He spurns me."

"Then... you have already pursued him?"

"Often, and zealously. To no avail."

"Hmm..." He did not condone the conspiratorial note in Katrina's words. "There must be something you could do to lessen his distance."

"I'd be open to any and all schemes," Elva said in a resigned tone. "But believe me when I say I've tried a legion. He can't view me as anything other than diminutive apprentice; friend, at best. I am a perversion of nature in his eyes... one that he cannot love."

Eragon almost dropped the bucket of slop he was throwing to the pigs. The fact that her words rang true did not mean he was unaffected by them. That was partly why he resisted her advances, to be certain, but not because she was a being of magic. Rather, she was not truly of age, even if her mind and body spoke to the contrary. It would be unspeakable for him to return her feelings. But because he was not _in love_ with her didn't mean he held _no_ love for her. Hadn't he made that clear in the past?

"You ought to ask Angela to whip you up a little something," Katrina said with a tinge of amusement. How _could_ she? "Men can be swayed with a little prompting of herbs."

"A tempting thought – extremely so – but I'd prefer not to sink to such a level," she said, even as she laughed. "I've come to realize I'll not hold onto his favor if it is initially won by unscrupulous means. If the gap between us cannot be bridged by the usual avenues of alluring garb and clever dialogue, then I'll simply have to mourn my fate and be done."

"You play a fair and honest game, then, Shiningbrow."

"Correction: I _lose_ a fair and honest game. However, one cannot call me a swindle. That's a small feather in my cap, isn't it?"

While they were both tittering, Eragon sat down heavily on a nearby barrel. The more he learned of Elva's intentions to ensnare him, the more he felt pity for her. Never in the foreseeable future would he relent, but it did not mean he delighted in her misery. When would the day come when she would surrender? Would it ever come?

"What upsets you, Cousin? Turn of your stomach?"

"Aye," he told Roran gruffly. "And naught to do with the food."

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Another night passed in relative peace. An hour before dawn, Eragon bathed, removed his shadow of a beard and relocated some magic to Beloth the Wise's diamonds and the stone in Brisingr's pommel. As he partook of breakfast, he also implemented the technique he had once before to thieve the residual energy from the livestock being butchered for the troops' nourishment, which he also stored in his belt. Their fates had already been sealed; he was only making sure it benefited their cause as much as possible.

When they departed, Eragon consented to allow Elva to ride with him upon Saphira's back for a time. Previously, when they were both under Oromis's tutelage in Du Weldenvarden, she had ridden in front of him, cradled in his thighs and gasping at every dip and curve. This day, she sat behind, arms gently encircling his waist and now able to grip Saphira's sides with her significantly-longer legs. Not once did she tumble free or flinch, laughing with delight at the feeling of the chill air buffeting them, settling her chin on his shoulder when their path was straight and free of turbulence.

Then Saphira asked if she wanted to "truly experience" flying. Eragon hid a grin when she agreed, for he knew what was in store. She opened her mind fully to Elva, and the witch-child slipped inside like a hand into a gauntlet. He listened to her coo and cry out in wonderment, and he could no longer hide his grin; it sincerely was exhilarating beyond measure to see flight from a dragon's perspective. Elva was fortunate to be given this gift, and she dedicated much time to her gratitude, which Saphira shrugged off with regal indifference.

_It is our joy, the sky, _she told the both of them. _A dragon with no legs is still a dragon, but a dragon whose wings have been clipped is but an oversized lizard._

_Delightful poetry,_ Elva replied, arms out to the sides in imitation of Saphira's wings. _Oh, if only I had been bonded with my own dragon..._

_I am sorry about that,_ Eragon told her bitterly. _In a bygone age, you likely would have been; I'm sure Saphira would not have been able to mark you if you were unworthy. Alas, there are no eggs available with which to test you._

_Don't fret over it. It is what it is, and I am who I am. Perhaps I shall cut down Murtagh and steal his away. Do you think Thorn might take a shine to me?_

_You sound like Galbatorix, _he warned.

Elva smiled as her hands went back to his waist; he more felt than saw it. _Really? That dictator sought to selfishly fly upon two of our winged allies in one lifetime, enslaving his second with black arts. It was pure greed. However, up here among the clouds... I feel at home, in a strange way. Would it not be just for me to acquire a heavenly partner all to myself? It's certainly unfair to you and Saphira, having me along._

_Nonsense,_ Saphira put in. _You are welcome on my back anytime, tiny one. An honor very few can claim, I might add._

_As is more than proper, Bjartskular._

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Midday meal became a tedious affair. A few stray Urgals picked a fight with a few stray humans, and it quickly escalated into an ugly skirmish. Conferring together, Eragon and Nar Garzhvog were able to put it to rest; when faced with the wrath of not only an eight-foot Kull in a position of supreme authority but a Dragon Rider with a flaming blade, most men back down and go about their business.

"You truly are Firesword now," Garzhvog told him with a savage grin as they observed the instigators slowly rejoin their own factions, cursing under their breath. "It befits you."

"Thank you, friend," he said, exposing his throat in their people's display of goodwill. Perhaps the term "friend" was overstating, but after traveling alongside the Urgal on his way to the dwarf clanmeet, they had forged a grudging respect.

"How goes your training of Quickknife?"

"Quickknife?"

The deep _ruk-ruk_ sound of laughter in Garzhvog's throat unsettled him. "Your youngling. Many of my rams witnessed your sparring match with her. Her speed was uncanny, like that of elves."

Eragon grinned; it was as kind a name as Elva was likely to receive from the warlike race. "It goes well, I suppose."

"She fights well for a female of such puny size."

"Aye, that she does. And she's only getting better by the moment, it seems."

"Good. Any brave warrior is welcome in our pursuit of the false-tongued hornless _drajl, _be she bred by sorcery and darkness or by any means."

That point, Eragon could not argue; they needed all the assistance they could muster.

At long last, he was able to ingest his fill and they resumed their journey anew. He stayed on the ground as Saphira left to hunt near the foothills; she could maneuver to catch her prey most easily when riderless.

_Just don't you land yourself in danger in the hour I am gone_.

_I'm not a tottering imbecile,_ he shot back testily. _Go fill your ponderous stomach._

_Are you implying that I am overweight?_

_Just go!_

That left him alone with Elva, of course; he began to wonder if she maintained a permanent spell of scrying on him somehow, for she always seemed to be able to turn up wherever he might be at any given moment. It was bothersome, but not unbearably so.

"Hold fast," she warned after a span.

"Eh?" Before he could question further, he felt hands dig into his back, then a _thud! o_f flesh on the back of his neck and tops of his shoulders. _"WHAT IS-!"_

"My weary feet cry out for relief," she laughed from overhead. "This seems a preferable mode of transport to me!"

"Get off, you jackanapes!" he growled, grasping at her shins and fully prepared to shrug her directly to the ground if need be.

"Just for a little while?"

"NO!"

"Please?" She clenched her thighs, and his breath drew short as he choked. "I'll suffocate you if you don't agree!"

"Oh, for pity's sake!" When her hands clapped over his eyes and he had to rely on his preternatural senses to guide his steps, he sighed, "Fine, allright, just ease off! But only for a few minutes or I'm sure we'll both wind up feasting on dirt when my legs give out."

"Think of it as weight training," she giggled, fingers still on his forehead but having slid upward to return his sight to him. "You'll feel light as a butterfly when not carrying me."

"Dandy."

"I..." She fell silent for a while after that. He did not prompt her for the thought she let drop, but merely plodded on, thoroughly displeased with the turn of events. At last, she did speak again, and said, "I missed this part."

"Hmm?"

"In Ellesméra, you would do this for me. And carry me up steps, and tuck me into bed. Things you do for children, though I was hardly a child."

"I did," he replied, holding back a remark on how childish she had in fact been.

"I've missed it, that's all. Missed being cared for by you in such ways."

"And that's why I'm doing irreparable damage to my back? Is that what you're telling me? You weigh a lot more than you did in those days."

"Are you saying I'm-"

"I swear, between the pair of you I've heard enough fretting over size!" Eragon blustered, thinking back to Saphira's comment. "You're nearing my height, so you can't possibly weigh the same or you'd have to be slender as that spear you crafted!"

"Silence, you old codger," she laughed. A few paces later, "Do you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"Me being small." There was an odd note behind her words. "Did you prefer me in that guise?"

"In some ways, yes. You could be ordered around more readily, and possibly shoved into sacks and carried around like-"

"Oh, _enough,_ you boor!" When he laughed, she thumped him on the crown with her knuckles and he swatted feebly at the hand. "I suppose I'm worried that you dislike the changes in me. One of those 'nest-leaving' situations where you still view me as some sort of daughter that you're losing to the ravages of time."

"Nay, Shiningbrow," he reassured her. "You're no more _or_ less of an annoyance than before, just a taller one. I suppose I'm glad you've changed."

"Really?"

He shrugged, and she wobbled dangerously from the action, tugging at his short locks of hair for stability so tightly that he winced. "You're lethal with that dagger, and your magic is nearly unmatched. These are things I'm not sure could have come to pass in your old, underdeveloped body, and therefore... yes, it's an advantage."

She sighed wistfully. "And for no other reasons than those, Master?"

"No other," he told her warily. "You're seeking out things that aren't there."

"As you say," she told him with a wealthy amount of disbelief. "Still... a pickaback ride is a fun change of pace from felling monsters and traitors, is it not? Even if I'm... _heavier,_ as you implied so crassly."

"Still your tongue, already, or you'll be the one carrying _me_ pickaback!"

"Is that so?" She clicked her tongue at him. "You do realize I could carry you, do you not?"

"Doubtful!"

Immediately, she hopped down and strode in front of him. "You'll see."

Eragon glanced at the slight frame of his apprentice; it was entirely impossible, wasn't it? But she seemed to think herself truly capable of supporting his bulk. "If you buckle beneath me, what then?"

"Then you'll have proven I tell tall tales. And what of it?"

Feeling entirely like a dunce, he hefted himself upward and onto her shoulders. She sagged for a moment, wobbled, then began walking at a reduced pace.

"You're slowing."

"I am not!" she protested stubbornly.

"Well, I must say," he said with a hint of a smile, resting his forearm against her pate, "this is quite relaxing. Shall you carry me all the way to Belatona?"

"Of course!" she grunted, attempting to laugh and partially succeeding. "I'd wager I could carry you all the way to Therinsford and back without breaking a sweat!"

"Then off we go! To Therinsford! _Gánga fram, hlaupa!"_

He nearly fell backward when she actually broke into a run, boots flying over the ground. From whence did she draw this stamina? Though he was glad of the respite from walking, and it tickled him immensely to hear the normally-conceited girl strain to hold him aloft, he began to feel yet sillier when their laughter and horseplay attracted stares from the other members of the Varden – particularly when he passed Jeod and his wife, Helen. He then tapped her ear and bade her stop so he could dismount.

"Finding ways to amuse yourselves during the midst of a war?" asked the former shipping merchant, his tone light even while his steps were heavy. "A capital idea, Shadeslayer. Keeping our spirits up _between_ victories is nearly as important as the victories themselves."

"Aye," Eragon replied sheepishly. "Well, I didn't believe she could do it."

"Debunked that belief, did I not?" Elva panted. Helen kindly passed her a waterskin, and she drank deeply of it.

"So," Jeod began, a gleam in his eye, "is this the young spitfire whose name has graced the lips of every man and boy throughout the camp?"

"I probably am," said Elva.

"She's scarcely a maiden," Helen breathed, not deigning to hide her surprise. "Did she really best you on the training ground?"

"Nearly so," Eragon corrected, eyes on Elva. "I'm sure with a few more months' diligent practice, she possibly could."

"Bah," Elva muttered modestly. "It's unlikely, Master; you were trained by Brom Holcombsson and Togira Ikonoka. My lessons under the werecat have been most beneficial, but hardly up to the standards of those legends."

Both Jeod and Helen exchanged surprised looks. "Master?" Jeod asked with a hint of a smile. "I was unaware you had taken on a pupil of your own. For that matter, I was unaware Dragon Riders took on pupils who are not also Riders."

In answer, Elva slid her bandana upward just enough to expose her silver mark for a few seconds, eliciting an outcry from Helen and a contemplative "oh" from Jeod. As she concealed it again, she told them, "Though I have no dragon, there are few others whom I could learn the arts from. Eragon-elda has shown me much, and I expect he still has knowledge to bestow. I will follow his example until he proclaims me a master in my own right."

As Jeod nodded, Eragon continued to watch Elva, who had turned her attention to the distant horizon and their destination. _I suppose I hadn't thought much on it, _he ruminated. _When shall her apprenticeship end? When she can defeat me in hand-to-hand, or when her magical proficiency has matched mine? I hadn't even viewed her as still being my student since I returned to the Varden. What is left to teach?_

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: Here we get some insight into how Elva feels when she thinks Eragon's not listening. Several other moments I'm proud of in this chapter: Elva's experiencing flight through Saphira's eyes, Garzhvog's nickname for her, and also "Delva"... and Eragon riding piggyback, which was a weird notion that came to me because my brain didn't get enough sleep, haha. Sentinel: Skolir does have a power, it's just less fantastic than huge blue flames. And that's all I'll say at this point.<p> 


	5. Mimicry

_Chapter Five – Mimicry_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Every member of the Varden, young and old, were aching and sore when they made camp that evening. The mess tents were erected expediently and began to bustle the moment they could send errand boys to fetch supplies from other locations. A call went up for new footwear, as all boots and sandals were now in such a state of disrepair that those needing replacements numbered in dozens, if not hundreds. Worse still was the supply of clean water; there simply wasn't enough to go around. They would need to begin rationing if they couldn't happen upon a stream or other such source soon.

As before, Eragon hastened to set up his own tent so he could aid others. Once he was satisfied he'd done the best he could, he angled for where he assumed the training grounds might be set up. Finding himself to have guessed well, he yearned to do battle, but none would be roped into it, especially after so many of the men had seen how even the "lightning-fast witch-child" had fared against him. One or two youthful lads with a burning desire to prove their mettle challenged, and he went easy on them – which is to say it took him a few minutes to thwart each one rather than the fleeting instant he would need utilizing all of his ability. They tried to insist he use another sword, but he refused; practicing with an unfamiliar blade would in no way help him learn the ins and outs of Brisingr, which was of little use.

A swarthy lad goaded him into using a common blade by claiming all his power resided in the Rider's sword and not the Rider himself. Several well-placed slashes later, he knew better.

Eragon was on point of returning to his tent, frustrated with the lack of challenge, when he spotted Arya crossing the field. Smiling, he approached her, and was disheartened to see her hesitate before proceeding on her present course. She did not wish to see him.

"_Atra esterní ono thelduin," _he called out, hoping to curry a spot of favor by initiating the greeting and thereby deferring to her position as royalty.

"_Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr," _she responded. "Eragon, I am glad to see you well, but I am not here to wile away the hours with idle chatter."

"To spar, then?" he asked hopefully. "None of these will, save for a few knaves and braggarts. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever draw this sword without slaying."

She pondered long and hard, eyes cast slightly to his right. It was obvious she was remembering their last discussion. "We could ask your guards to spar with us, but I doubt they would bother; they would likely think it beneath their status."

"Likely," he agreed, glancing over at the silver-haired woman lounging near the weapons' tent as if merely perusing their wares.

Both war-tempered veterans drew their blades and magically blunted the edges, then took up a ready stance, swordtips touching.

"At your word, Svit-kona," he offered.

"_Hup!"_

And the contest was underway. They were so grateful to find an opponent of equal strength that even though opportunities for "killing" strikes arose, they did not take advantage of them, and thus the din of steel clashing with steel echoed through the camp for nearly an hour. Another crowd gathered, and Eragon's keen ears picked up whisperings that this was the very elf who had "helped the Rider slay the Shade," which was sadly as much credit as Arya might receive from them. He thought that a great tragedy.

It ended on a pathetic note when Eragon stepped on a large stone he'd failed to notice and turned his ankle; he tried to recover quickly and riposte, but Arya already had her blade at his throat, just enough that he could feel a vein throbbing against it. However, she did not ask him to yield, but merely stepped back and gave him a courteous nod, which he returned.

"A worthy bout."

"Aye," he panted, ending the dulling spell on Brisingr and stowing it. They were both shining from the moisture their bodies had urgently shed in an effort to cool their overheated systems, and breathing hard; half an hour was a long stretch to trade constant blows.

"Here, lean on me."

"Eh?"

"Your ankle," she gusted as she wiped at her brow, having sheathed her own sword. "It has twisted, has it not? I'll support you while you heal it."

"Ah, yes," he half-laughed. "Thank you." He then did as she bade, but the angle was off and he ended up falling against her just as he completed the spell.

"Watch yourself," she said with the tiniest bit of amusement.

"Need I, when you're watching for me?"

She let out a snort of laughter, and for some reason when they were standing there, him leaning on her and both of them soaked from exertion, breath coming in gasps, all of the feelings he'd been doing his best to submerge boiled to the surface, straining for air. _She is everything a man could want – any man who is not completely without brain. _Forcing them back down, he leaned in and embraced her, burying his face in her neck.

"Eragon..."

"Sorry," he whispered. "Just... wanted to apologize. For the other day."

"No need, it was... it was nothing of import. Your empathy was most appreciated, and I did not react well when you made a simple mistake."

"It matters little. Only that you forgive me."

She hesitated, standing erect as a length of wood. Then her posture relaxed and she returned his gesture, hands resting tentatively on his back. "If you'll forgive me in turn."

"There is nothing to forgive. You were distraught."

"Even so."

Nothing would have given him more satisfaction than to lean back and do something she would most likely draw-and-quarter him for, but he sealed off the desire; this was enough just now. Arya was too close a friend to alienate with blundering ineptitude.

Suddenly, she drew back and blinked at him. His eyes questioning, he watched hers turn to her left, and he followed the line of sight and froze.

Elva stood nearby, hand on the hilt of her dagger and one eyebrow retreating beneath her bandana. When he flashed her a smile, she returned it – though hers could have turned lesser men into sniveling cowards. Staring at her boots for a moment, she then resumed walking to the weapons' tent, directly on the other side of the two sparring partners. As she passed, she spoke in an undertone.

"Ebrithil. _Arya."_

If he hadn't known "Arya" was a person's name, he would have been certain she had cursed in a language he had yet to study. Then her back was to them, rapidly diminishing due to her efficient steps. She did not glance around.

"My apologies on her behalf, Svit-kona," he sighed. "Shiningbrow's manners leave something to be desired."

"Unnecessary. After what she's been through, it is a miracle her tongue keeps as civil as it does."

Eragon debated it for a moment, then said, "There may be some truth in that. Thank you for a rousing sport."

"Anytime." She turned to depart, then paused, an eye cocked in his direction. "Eragon... do you... that is, perhaps it is not my place to ask."

"Go on."

"What... is she to you, precisely? Only that I sense quite a bit of intent on her end."

Eragon blanched. "I train her and I count her as friend. That is where our connection ends, regardless of whatever 'intent' may linger in her mind. Why?"

"No reason." She coughed into her fist. "You ought to see to that ankle, and to your feet; I noticed from the way you move that you may have a fair few blisters. It wouldn't do to leave your health untended."

"Don't worry so," he told her dismissively.

"I will, for I must; we all must. You're our shining ray of hope." Then she smirked. "Perhaps I'll drop by and ensure you aren't ignoring your own well-being, since you seem to have this nasty habit of putting your needs below all others."

"You must do as you see fit."

Arya nodded, still smirking, then turned to leave. Eragon set out in a different direction, hoping to escape before Elva could catch up with him.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Eragon, Saphira, Roran and Katrina all broke bread with Horst and his family that eve. It was a casual but warm affair, Elain positively aglow from her overdue child but determined to still serve the food as usual, only consenting to allow Katrina to help when the younger woman threatened to tie Elain to her chair. Privately, Eragon counted himself blessed to be in the company of so many strong females, for knowing her and Katrina, and furthermore Arya, Nasuada, Angela, and even Elva, the women of the Varden were a most hale and hearty bunch.

Horst and Elain seemed to delight in Saphira's presence, offering her mead and plates of food, the latter of which she declined; Eragon explained for her that she'd been off hunting and had more than enough sustenance to last her through several days if need be. They laughed, Horst slapping his knee, when Saphira used a small jet of flame to heat the teakettle rather more quickly than they'd expected. Speaking through Eragon, she regaled them with stories of her long flights, of what the earth looked like from high above and how many types of birds she'd passed, startling their bird-brains with her sheer size. The night ended with the Horst household being a far sight more comfortable around dragons than they once had.

Eragon sagged into his bedroll with no small amount of relief; the walking hadn't been so terrible, but his long, drawn-out swordplay with Arya certainly had. Now, with his stomach full, all he wished for was to rest and be as dimly aware of the world around him as possible.

_Sleep well, little one,_ Saphira bade him.

_You also. Wait..._ Something about the way she said it was off. _Where are you off to?_

_I am restless after keeping my neck craned into that tent for so long. A brief flight will be just the thing before I turn in; the moon and the stars are breathtaking, and I wish to partake._

_Suit yourself. _After she took to the sky and he watched the fabric of his tent flutter in her wake, he knew no more.

It was less than an hour later when his half-alert mind felt a presence nearing. _Not again,_ he moaned inwardly. But he held fast; Brisingr was within reach, as was the hunting knife under his pillow. Should he roll over to better confront the intruder? Not yet; if it turned out to be an assassin, he would let them think they had the upper hand, then turn and strike at the last moment, turning their own surprise back on them. He was confident in his swiftness.

He heard hushed voices; one of them was Blödhgarm's rich tone, and the other was a woman. Who, he couldn't tell, as they were speaking too low for even his ears. Perhaps it was merely a late-night visitor. But who would trouble themselves...?

His first thought was of Elva as he heard the tent-flap open. Yes, she had seemed to learn her lesson in this area before, but sometimes lessons needed repeating before they truly took root in a young mind. Footsteps approached; they were long strides, calm. When he felt hands on his back, he began to turn, but the hands held him, and lips pursed, and air rushed from them.

"Shh..."

He was not to turn around or to speak. Who dared order him to be still, during his own slumber in his own tent? He reached out with his mind but found only another presence, entirely closed off behind a wall of iron. Straining to hear, all he deduced was that it was indeed a woman and one who breathed; it could have been anyone. The touch against him informed him of nothing more but that the fingers were slender.

The hands moved down to the small of his back, vanished, then reappeared on his calves. The moment he made to turn again, they flashed to his shoulderblades and held fast until he went limp. Satisfied, the stranger returned to his ankles, and placed hands on his road-worn feet.

A spell was uttered too low for him to catch the words, and this eliminated a great many people from the Varden; they didn't have so many casters as they might wish to. Now he could think of only a handful of suspects. When gentle thumbs gouged into his flesh, he became aware that all of his blisters had been eradicated, though the ache remained; the stranger meant to drive out the aches by mundane means alone.

Twice more Eragon attempted to whirl and peek at his benefactor, and twice she displayed amazing speed, holding him down. The second time, she also shushed him, and he decided to give up and accept her gift. From his feet she moved up his calves, then to his hamstrings; when her hands lifted from there he tensed, unwilling to allow a stranger so intimate a contact, but they appeared once more on his lower back and he relaxed. He smelled oil on the air as it was poured out, then reveled in the feeling against his skin as the nimble fingers worked at him. Whoever this was had earned themselves a favor from a Dragon Rider in their future.

_Who are you? _he sent into the void desperately, still unwilling to voice his assumption as to the stranger's identity. _Why do you do this for me?_

In answer, a finger brushed its way down the center of his back, and he shivered. The strangest part was, he knew it to be the very place where he'd once borne a long, hideous scar courtesy of Durza's vile assault on Farthen Dûr – a scar now vanished without trace. This was someone who _knew._ It was hardly substantial proof, but it eliminated some from the running.

Unable to resist, Eragon began to wonder how he would react if it were Angela, or even Nasuada. Those thoughts disquieted him; Nasuada was for all intents and purposes a _queen!_ She couldn't flit around, rubbing oil on her vassals in the dead of night! And Angela... well, the very idea of that brought a gurgle to his belly. Certainly it could be her; one never knew what the herbalist might do next.

But it couldn't be Nasuada; this woman had used magic, which the leader of the Varden loathed and avoided whenever she might. A thrill of unease buffeted him when he mused that it might be a man (whom he would have to gingerly dissuade, for he was not of that inclination), but it would have to be one with a gentle touch and a high speaking voice; that much he had deduced from her incantation and shushings. At last, the list grew shorter. Trianna he had halfheartedly considered – it wouldn't be the first time she had tried wooing him – but he did not believe she knew the exact location of his scar. Or did she?

Even if one of his guard-elves had somehow found out about Durza's wound, why would they have designs on a Rider? Preposterous; he hardly knew them beyond name and sight. That was more or less the list of all spell-weavers among the Varden. Could it be a rogue from Galbatorix's camp? One who knew of his scar, and had fallen in love with him from afar? Perhaps; perhaps it was also possible that Saphira was an overstuffed dormouse and he was a hornless Urgal who had stunted his growth. No, it must be someone close.

As she readjusted her position, his ears perked up at the rustling of long hair, and his nose twitched; the action had loosed a mild odor of crushed pine needles.

_Arya._

His heart lodged itself into his throat. He had hoped it would be her, hoped to all the heavens and every god of the dwarves, but he hadn't truly believed until he caught her scent on the air. Now he understood why she implored him not to turn; this would be a moonshadow in the night, something never spoken of. Mind racing back to all their previous conversations, he could not disparage her for acting in secret. To Arya's way of thinking, there could never be anything more between them than companionship; she was a century older than he, battle-hardened, royalty, and an elf. Meanwhile he was appallingly human, young, inexperienced, and a Dragon Rider – a group who seldom took wives or mates because of the nature of their calling. Among the Forsworn, Morzan was the only one known to have sired any offspring. Thus, believing any deeper bond to be impractical, she had belittled and spat upon his advances at every turn – most memorably when she took the _fairth_ he had enchanted to bear her image and destroyed it as violently as possible. He had done worse... however, in the time since his asinine declaration of love during the Agaetí Blödhren, he had come to view that misstep as beyond his control, and therefore it no longer counted it as the most heinous act he'd ever committed. Nevertheless, it remained evidence of his feelings and her lack thereof...

But did she truly lack them?

Perhaps it was merely a construct of society that held her at bay; the idea that none would approve of them, that their union would be ill-fated and reviled. They may not have shared everything in common, but there was enough that they did; sense of duty, love for all creatures, appreciation of the beauty in nature. Neither of them cared for bloodshed, though over her many years Arya had come to terms with its necessity; he had yet to reach that depth, no matter how near he drew with every battle. The way they kept saving each other's necks bore mentioning, also. He found himself compelled to be with her without reservation, not only for her stunning beauty but for everything that she was, every small aspect that he may have no hope on earth of assimilating should he live a dozen centuries.

And she may have felt the same. Eragon had pondered it a thousand times. Never had she given him the impression that she cared not for him, always counted him as friend and ally, for his status and what hit promised, and also for his abilities and morals. Who _he_ was. They were at the absolute least friends. So then... what if she did return his affections, if not outwardly then in her heart? Coupled with his hypothesis of her reasons to avoid joining with him (some of which she had spoken aloud on occasion), it was clear why she would go about displaying her affection in this furtive way. It was the _only_ way.

He could not turn to face her. It would mar everything.

That decided, it became so much more trying for him to keep from doing it. She was so warm, so nearby... touching his skin, tending to him. It was ironic how tense he felt as she worked the old tension away. As she continued on his shoulders, he opened his mind on the off-chance... and found emptiness. It was not even to be shared mentally; just physically.

For a single fleeting moment that was over almost before it began, he felt the kneading at the base of his neck slow and become less functional... and more tender. His modest wisdom demanded he stop before he get there, but his heart had already bolted ahead to the goal: that was a lover's touch. There could be nothing else to call it.

Beautiful.

Angela, Trianna... or Arya.

The hands stopped, fingertips still pressing into his back. They held there for a long moment, and none moved, not a word was said in the silent tent. Then, he heard another flutter, felt hair brushing his back... and lips brushing it, as well. How much bolder she became! Except the following instant she had drawn away, hands lingering there; he sensed she was readying to leave, in spite of her stillness.

"Thank you," he mouthed, barely propelling any wind past his teeth to do so. Too quiet for any ears other than their own, and even then maybe she wouldn't hear him.

But she sighed through her nostrils, hands flexing in to grip his flesh; she'd heard. Then, one last time, she held him firmly and said, "Shh..."

The hands disappeared. Eragon waited. What else might she do? A sudden current of energy filled the air, it might have been a magic – and then he heard hasty footsteps scurrying into the distance, light and fleet. Silence fell.

Rolling to his back faster than natural law would permit, he saw naught but the tent-flap closing; his guest had come and gone without him ever clapping eyes on her.

"Farewell," he whispered, a bit louder. If it _were_ Arya, she had probably still caught it.

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: Passion! Intrigue! Other buzzwords! Things get spicy, eh? Candles and Coldplay. Sorry if I spent too much time on Eragon's inner turmoil here but it was too fun to write. To GDI: it's because I don't post as I go along anymore. I was doing that with my first ongoing fiction "Mysterious Scent" and it worked out REALLY badly, so now I at least finish the rough draft of the entire thing before I ever hit "New Story". Then I just proofreadbeta my own work and post each chapter when it's ready. That way I can put as much "love" into it as possible. And YES, Eragon/Elva makes as much sense as Eragon/Arya if not more; I'm not the kind of 'shroom who bags on other people's OTPs needlessly, but when I sink my teeth into one I never let go :P


	6. Denudation

_Chapter Six – Denudation_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Eragon woke in the morning with a smile on his face. It wasn't until he'd already begun his ablutions that he remembered why.

_Arya._

The very name set his mind to dancing. It rolled from the tongue, spiraled along sunbeams and brought about the dewdrops. He wanted to wrap himself around it – or wrap it around himself, as if a silken robe made of pure ecstasy. Arya Svit-kona... the comeliest in Alagaësia.

Perhaps he had dreamed it. There had been times in the past when his waking dreams were so vivid as to upset him long afterward. But not this time. Somehow, he knew it had really come to pass; Arya had paid him a midnight visit. It was an indiscretion, and one that could not be examined. But he would know, as would she. Little else mattered.

A meager breakfast was bolted down, during which he happened to dine with a few members of Du Vrangr Gata. Trianna smiled a languid smile at him, and he responded in kind, thinking of how he'd entertained her as a possibility. Should he make sure? No, it was too reckless; she could learn what information he was seeking. It was also rude. But he had to know. He reached outward with his mind, brushing aside her inadequate defenses like spiderwebs. The look of confusion on her face did not deter him; he picked through a few areas devoted to her personal identity on the pretense of making sure she was not an impostor, then casually, as if by accident, strolled through the area devoted to himself.

It had not been her. Oh, she thought him handsome – and he fought down a blush, though she'd made this plain in the past – and she respected his abilities and his status, but there was little else. She wished to harness his magical might for their organization, which she had also been up front about. It began and ended with those things.

_Something awry? _she questioned.

_One can never be too vigilant in times such as these,_ was the only answer he gave her before withdrawing. "Sorry," he told her aloud. Trianna shrugged, winked in his direction, and went back to her toast and tea.

Convinced as he was that Arya had been his visitor, he frowned when he realized that Trianna had been the only of the three candidates that he could forcibly check; Arya would never allow it (and he would never presume to try without her permission), and he doubted if he could ever in a dragon's age penetrate into Angela's unconventional mind. Yet more maddening, it dawned on him that Angela was likely the only member of the Varden with the skill to duplicate Arya's scent if she were so inclined. Or had it been someone else who happened to use a perfume comprised of pine musk? It wasn't terribly popular among human women; they tended to favor rose water or other such.

He was giving this too much credence. It had been a sensual massage indeed, but nothing more; no merging of souls, no fevered kisses. More important matters needed consideration. Was he but a lovestruck youth, loitering in the village square and gawping at some girl in a shop window? They were at war. Shaking himself, he returned to his tent and packed up for the day's hike over hilly terrain.

As he and Saphira soared in and out of the clouds, she seemed to effortlessly pick apart what worried him.

_None of your concern,_ he warned.

_It is, _she reminded him. _We've had this discussion, little one; any and all mate-finding that either of us do will directly affect the other. Do not drag a stranger into our nest._

_A stranger? It's Arya I'm talking of!_

_Oh yes. _The sarcasm in her remark was ill-disguised. _Surely_ _it was. She's been seeking you out so very earnestly up to now._

_A pox on you, dragon._

_Do you wonder at my doubt? After the Blood-Oath Celebration, when you twitched your tail and pounced on her like an inquisitive hatchling? It was a shameful display._

Eragon's eyes narrowed. _Let's not talk about who twitched and pounced on someone beyond their reach, shall we, Saphira?_

_Aye,_ she said glumly. From there, she sank into despair at the fate of the ancient dragon she had been ignorant enough to pursue, and their conversation ended for the better part of an hour. Neither of them found much to say, and Eragon was to blame. He patted her scales idly, and she sent him a feeble wave of gratitude. They would push through the sorrow together.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Noon found them breaking near a blessed stream of clear water and filling their waterskins; it was a welcome sight indeed, and a general air of cheer broke out among the Varden. Clean water meant better health, which meant less worry.

While he was halfway through a quick lunch, Elva found and challenged him again. When he laughed, she seemed incensed.

"You mock my challenge!" she snapped. "Did you not learn anything from the last? Have I not proven myself worth facing off against?"

"I'm sorry," he chuckled around a mouthful of herbed greens. "For a moment, I honestly thought it a jest... and it only became more hilarious when I realized it was not!"

"Are you so frightened that I've already surpassed you, Ebrithil? Is that why you make light of me? You're _afraid!"_

Nodding while laughing, he stood. "Allright; a rematch."

Elva drew her dagger and cried, "Aye!"

"_Malthinae,"_ he intoned, and she wobbled where she stood, arms and legs smashed inward. "I've told you before that I'll not have the blood of my apprentice stain my sword. Cast the spell of dulling or I shall refuse to-"

But to his surprise, she escaped his magical hold and flew toward him, leg extended; he was kicked in the center of his chest and sent to the ground, and though he rolled and was immediately back on his feet, he could not deny she had landed the first blow.

"Think yourself so untouchable now?" she crowed, shifting her balance from side to side as she circled him. "Come, then, _Master._ Let us test each other!"

"No." He glared evenly at her. "Dull your edge or I'll not fight. It is an order, not a request."

"You wish for a battle free of repercussion," she told him scornfully, slashing out for his arm. "I wish to truly find out what I am capable of."

Eragon spoke again in a whisper, and Elva fell to her knees, scrabbling at her throat and trembling; sickly noises escaped from her mouth as she tried fruitlessly to defect his magical onslaught. "Will you abide by my rules of combat or not, pupil?"

She did not answer.

"Well?"

A slight nod. He released his hold and she sat gasping for a few seconds, then arched her back and vaulted directly to her feet. _"Gëuloth du knífr."_

"Wise move," he said as she passed her fingers along Skölir, and he mimicked this after drawing his weapon. "But if it is your heart's desire, I'll not hold anything back – anything at all. This will be our only safeguard."

"Thank you," she said with a twisted smile. "It is all I ask."

The sparring session was long and brutal, and both teacher and student were covered in bruises and even cuts that could not be avoided in spite of the spell. The longer they fought, the more blotches of red invaded Elva's face as she was forced to admit she would find no way to best him this day. Finally, when they were merely circling and waiting for openings through which to deliver their next volleys, she dropped her blade.

"I yield."

"You yield?" he asked, panting. "Really? Just like that?"

"_Just like that?"_ she echoed angrily. "You don't think I've given my all, pushed beyond my limits and sent everything I can think of in your direction? I am a miserable weakling and I yield!"

"Elva-" She turned to flee, but he darted forward and caught her by the elbow. "No, Elva. I wish to speak with you."

"I do not wish that."

"Please, what goes on here? Why are you so, so..."

"I wanted to-" But she halted, unable to articulate further. Curious to find out what drove her to this madness, Eragon touched her cheek, and she crumpled against him, sobbing and clutching and trembling from stem to stern. What other option was open to him but to hold her until she quieted? Thus, he did.

"Why do I fall short?" she whispered when at last her fit had subsided enough to allow for speech. "All I desire is to become unrivaled with a dagger, but I feel as if I can't... that I will never measure up. Greatest among mortals, perhaps, but there will always be Riders and elves and all manner of beings that can swat me away as if I were an insect."

"Would that be so awful?"

"In a word – yes!" She pulled back to gaze up at him, and her virulent orchid-tinted eyes shone in the sun, and he felt his own throat constrict. The importance of her following words seemed to build in the air around them as he was blindsided by something that often eluded his notice: Elva's innate, exotic beauty. "What use am I to you if my only significant purpose will be to delay your attackers for a few additional moments? I should be able to protect you!"

The curtain was rolled back and truly saw her intentions, why she so desperately wanted to grow stronger, to be nigh indestructible. To protect him. Not for her own goals, not to boast of her might or to gain honor or riches or renown. To protect her master from harm. It lent a debilitating urgency to her training, which hindered more than it hurried. It blinded her to the folly of challenging him over and over, when she should be focusing on learning instead of exhaustive tests of what she already knows.

"Protect me?" He almost smiled, but could not when looking upon her dejected features. "No, Cursed-By-Blessing. It is I who ought to be sheltering you."

"_Barzûlegûr!"_ she swore, a ravenous need for him to understand creeping into her tone. "No, no, you are wrong! My life is of no import! What matters it to anyone if I live or die, least of all myself? But you – _you_ must go on, you _must_, or our fate will be that of Oromis-ebrithil, and of Ajihad, and of Hrothgar! And if I fail in ensuring you will succeed... then all I have... then I have been created for no reason at all!"

His breath drew short. "Elva..."

"And for all _your_ importance, and for how fond I am of you, I am sometimes confounded at your prodigious stupidity! How can you not understand me, even after all this time?"

"You are... incomprehensible," he said, making no attempt to keep the shock from his voice. "I am in awe of the woman you've become."

Elva stilled, biting words caught in her throat. She gazed at him evenly out of her poisonous spheres as her eyebrows knitted, searching for something. Then she looked down and away. "No... no, I'm the stupid one."

"Hmm?"

"What you have said, it is dangerously close to being a compliment. And not one given lightly to a mere friend. So I will not accept it."

Eragon reflected on his words. Yes, it could be perhaps interpreted in such a way. "But-"

"But your attentions are focused elsewhere," she said bitterly. "I will not accept it, not when it is better suited for the vixen."

"The vixen? Ah." He frowned. "Still you show her no respect."

"I have my reasons." Eragon could not stave off a shudder at the iciness in her tone. "But yesterday, on the training ground... you and she seemed to..." A shake of the head. "Nevermind, I overstep. Forget I spoke."

"Elva-"

"Forget it!" she snapped, pushing away from him and running her fist over her eyes. "It's... I must away, I cannot endure this!"

"Your blade!"

She had been on point of fleeing when he reminded her of the dagger lying forgotten amid the grass. A costly mistake for any warrior. They both stooped to fetch it at the same time, and their fingers brushed, and Eragon felt her mind clumsily collide with his...

And he turned to stone. As their hands and hearts touched, he felt sure of one thing: Elva's feelings for him were far greater than he'd known from previous mental linkings, greater still than he'd ever dared suspect. They were immense and horrifying; no one person should be the object of so much unbridled affection. Her entire being was consumed by him, every last corner, every paltry atom. The few other concerns she held, like those for Oromis or Nasuada or Angela, they all reflected back on him in some way: "Now that Oromis has been felled, how is Eragon coping with it?" "If Nasuada were ousted, would Eragon be prepared to take up her cause on his own?" It was as troubling as it was flattering.

Every time she had attempted to court him, passing it off as mirthful flattery or jokes at his expense... they were in fact her naked feelings in a guise of jest. And they'd both laughed, and she had smiled, and all of it had torn her soul to shreds. Infinitely.

Their eyes met over the ground as she finally closed off her mind from him, realizing what had transpired. They stared openly for a time, and then down at their hands atop Skölir's handle. Eragon's calloused knuckles were so unsightly next to her thin, nimble extremity. His fingers slowly curled around hers, and she gasped but did not pull away or struggle.

"My little Quickknife..."

In the corner of his eye, he caught her other hand angling toward the first, closing fast, there. The fingertips hovered a hair's breadth above his hand, wishing to clasp it between both of hers. They shook, they twitched. Then they darted downward and grasped the hilt of her dagger.

"Thank you for reminding me," she whispered, holding still. "I... would not want to lose something so valuable."

"Nor would I." He looked up at her again, but her gaze remained pointed at their hands. All at once, she surged to her feet, jerking from his grasp. "Elva?"

"Leave it," she barked as she ended the spell on her blade and sheathed it. "I'll be fine. And now you... must go to Arya."

"Belay talk of Arya," he said through gritted teeth as he stood. "I would talk of you."

"There is nothing to be said. _I_ am nothing – or will be soon enough."

With that ominous parting sentiment, Elva took off at a clip that would have shamed any elf or Urgal, all but vanishing on the spot and leaving Eragon to stare after her with a fresh pain splitting his chest open. Something was different... something that he could not identify. But it was sure to cause no end of sorrow.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Eragon drifted through the rest of the day in a daze. All through the afternoon, he allowed Saphira to carry him, sitting limp in her saddle. His mind was burdened heavily, and though Saphira could obviously sense his distress, she wisely declined to provoke an answer from him.

He could not care for Elva in the way she cared for him. It would never come to pass; he refused to even dignify such a putrid thought. Now, however, he knew he could not ignore the problem until it vanished of its own accord. She was helplessly enraptured. It warmed him to know she had grown from such a tortured wretch into someone capable of love – if only it had been directed elsewhere!

But where? He doubted if any man among the Varden was likely to seek a woman who had only been alive for a year, regardless of acumen or visage. Any that _would_ were exactly the type of contemptible scum who didn't deserve her. So what then? Was she doomed to wait until she was of age by human standards? Being capable of sharing your heart with someone but holding off for fifteen agonizing years... it was an odious prospect. He wouldn't wish that on anyone, save Galbatorix himself.

Poor, pitiable witch-child.

That night, he wandered around the camp aimlessly, ate little, spoke little. Arya attempted to cheer him up, and he thrilled at seeing her – but the thrill was quickly extinguished. How could he fully enjoy what they shared when he knew it was something beyond Elva's reach? He refused her offers to tend his wounds or to speak about what harried him; it was not for her to know. At last she caressed his hair and whispered that things would look brighter in the morning before wishing him a peaceful slumber.

_You must not excite yourself so strongly over the problems of others,_ Saphira chided him later that eve. _They are not your younglings to herd and clean and feed. Allow them to spread their wings so you may tend your own._

_No one else cares,_ he fired back as he set up his bedroll. _Is it not my duty as the only one paying her the slightest mind to do what I can to better her plight? My duty as a Rider, and as Ebrithil, and as a decent human being?_

_You overextend, little one. None can save an entire nation _and_ make all the sundry gashes of its inhabitants fade. You head directly into an ill wind._

_I do at that. _Then he bade her goodnight.

Arya returned. He knew it was her because her arrival was nearly identical to that of the night before, despite his face being upon his pillow. This time it was unwelcome; his heart had been sickened by another issue, and there could be no joy from her touch while it was so.

"Might we speak?" he asked quietly when she was still healing his cuts and bruises.

"Shh," she urged.

"Please, I... it is such a blinding pain..."

Though she did not answer, her hand went to his hair in much the same gesture as that afternoon; one of comfort and sympathy. She was aware that he was burdened, but only during the day could they speak, when they were Eragon and Arya... not two spirits careening through the night, beholden to none.

And he could not bear it. Not this night.

"Leave me." She did not move from him, only returned to healing his abrasions. "You cannot... I am so distraught, and this... it is not something I can draw happiness from tonight."

The hands moved up to his shoulders, gripping tightly, imploring him to reconsider. He reached out with his mind and found nothing – not even Saphira. He felt alone, utterly alone, and still she persisted.

"Please!" he sobbed into his pillow. "Please do not worsen it!"

And he cried. He cried for himself, and for Elva, and for he and Arya, and for all. The world was no place he wished to exist where such wrongness could thrive; it ought to be burned, lock, stock and barrel, razed and created anew without evil or hopelessness. Perhaps that made him sound like Galbatorix, but just then he could not care.

When his tears did not stem after a brief eternity had passed, he felt droplets land on his back; she shared in his misery, and knowing she also wept only made him weep harder. But did she fully appreciate all he mourned for?

The moment came; he was too forlorn. Squeezing his eyes shut, he spun and drew her down upon him, grinding his face against her shoulder, allowing her scent to fill him up and hating that he still thrilled in it in spite of his state. Her arms wrapped around him and held him true, willing all of his hurt to end.

He shifted as his hand grazed along her silken hair... and something was amiss. When his ear slid over hers, he registered that it did not come to a point as Arya's would. To be fair, she had changed her features once before, rounded her ears and leveled her eyebrows to appear human. Had she done so again to lessen suspicions?

No. That was a flight of fancy. His visitor wasn't Arya.

Slowly, Eragon drew back to look at her, and as he moved he felt every muscle in her being clench, prepared to be railed against, or beaten, or any manner of reproach nearly as horrible as their weeping had been. He knew in the instant before he opened his eyes what he would find.

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: OH SNAP, RIGHT? If it's not the princess, then who is it? (I know most of you could guess though.) One of my favorite scenes to write was the moment after they spar. That turned out so, so well, much better than I hoped! Eragon finally <em>gets it<em> to some degree. He holds her hand, just for a second, and we can only wonder what might have happened if she didn't pull away... anyway, next chapter yet more crap will go down. Get ready!


	7. Compunction

_Chapter Seven – Compunction_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

"Eragon, you _fool."_

Eragon gaped openly at Elva as the streaks on her face lengthened and widened. Elva. _Elva_. Why had she done this thing?

"You were never supposed to discover me," she went on bleakly, her voice quavering and meek. "It was your role to lie still and take what I offered, and mine to go unnoticed. Your curiosity has ruined us both."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, meaning so much more than his simple words could say.

"I see how you look at her. How you lust after her, how you burn for her to be yours... and how she casts you aside because she cannot conceive of a future with you. And it rends me that it must be that way. Then I overheard her mention she might visit you, tend to your blisters; she was not serious, but I knew if I came... you see, I wanted... even if by mere illusion..."

She broke off, face imploding upon itself as she tried not to allow her grief to cripple her and failed spectacularly. Eragon knew there was anger in him at her deception, but he could not give voice to it; other, stronger emotions barred its path. Sadness. Guilt. Confusion – by and large, confusion reigned.

"I... don't understand," he choked out. "You... how did you even... and you smell of pine, like-"

"Surely you've puzzled out that bit," she said with a weak laugh.

"Angela." When Elva nodded, he said, "You spoke with the guards, even. What did you tell them?"

"That you needed help tending your wounds. Which is what I did, is it not?"

His expression darkened. "That isn't all you did. Last night, you... your lips touched my back." He blinked when he thought of something he'd neglected. "Normally you'd be throwing yourself at me by now, pawing me and carrying on like a rabid hare."

"Your reluctance has bred fear in me, Ebrithil. Over and over, I've tried to catch your eye, and though my feelings were genuine it was mostly but a jest; your reactions are varied and comical, and it entertains me. However..." Both of her hands went to her face, rubbing the tracks away to form one light coating of moisture on her cheeks. "When we awoke together... when you made it eminently plain that my overtures not only disgusted and unnerved, but it actually _pained_ you to sleep beside me because you _do_ care for me, albeit differently... when I found that I was causing you true grief, my jests lost all humor. Thus, I scaled them back. Drastically."

Eragon felt cold. It was not his lack of clothing, nor the blanket bunched in his lap that did not cover the rest of him. Those were not the cause of his chill. "I'll never grasp why you care so much for my welfare. We are linked, and I hold you in my heart, but why do you bend over backward to see me happy?"

"Rhetoric, now?" Her laugh was hollow and sharp. "This is obvious and I'll not speak it aloud. Blast it, why did you deem it so urgent that you see? Why did you have to turn?"

"Because of you."

Elva sighed. "Because you had to behold her with your own eyes before acknowledging it was real. I knew it... I knew it was idiocy for me to attempt this, but I could not talk sense into mysel-"

"Not Ayra. _You._ I could not accept what I thought was Arya's nocturnal liaison with a clear conscience when... when I knew you felt such..."

"Eragon?"

His hand snaked forward and closed on hers, nearly crushing it; she winced but otherwise waited for him to go on. "This. Today, after we sparred; a chance encounter. It opened my eyes to who you've become, and how you neglect your own needs and desires for my sake. I've been so..."

"Do you truly mean any of this?" she said with so much disbelief that he sobbed afresh. Fingernails dug into the back of his hand. "Eragon, no, you must not shed more tears or I'll expire here and now! Aren't you a man?"

"Apparently not, if I can be so blind to my friend's suffering!"

"I care not!" Her volume had risen, and she took a moment to reduce it to a level more suited for the late hour. Her arm seized, and their connection was lost. "I care not if you do or do not see. My suffering is a footnote in your epic tale, my master. One that shall be lost to time."

"Shiningbrow." He steeled himself for what came next. It was only fair she be given the chance to show him, to pour forth that which she had kept locked within, festering and eating a hole through her stomach. "Tell me... if you could do whatever you wanted at this very moment, what would you? Here, in my tent. Anything."

"A dangerous question." Her words were flat and toneless, and held a gravitas to be reckoned with. It was the most frightened he'd been of her since he stumbled upon a memory she had not intended for him to find.

"I won't hold you at fault. Think what you may, and I will listen, and you will not feel any wrath from it. I welcome your words, I... give me your wish without obscuration of lies or trickery, or guesswork, or rumor. Just what is in your heart."

"No," she whispered.

"Tell me, please."

With a movement so fast he had only a beat to tense before it was complete, Skölir was at his throat, slicing in scarcely enough to draw a beading of blood. Mentally, he readied two spells; one to heal the cut, and one to break every last bone in both of her arms. The next moment would decide whether he needed them.

"Do not move, do not blink, do not speak. _Stay._"

"Aye." He saw her knuckles tense on the handle; this was no idle threat. That lone word had been one too many and he was lucky to have survived it.

Seconds passed. Elva was still crying, yes, but the fierceness of her lineaments wrecked the illusion of weakness that tears often craft. When she spoke, her voice had softened, even if her countenance hadn't.

"I would lay down upon your chest and you would hold me, running your fingers through my hair and down my back. And we would whisper many, many things, and laugh, and carry on like drunkards. Then, in the breath before slumber took us... I would kiss your neck and tell you what you meant to me. Must you hear that part, as well? So be it – _everything_. Merely saying that nothing else matters is a gross understatement. You are all." A thick swallow. "That is what I would do – that is what I can never do. Consider yourself educated by your own student."

Eragon did as she had asked; he kept silent. Dagger still poised to strike, she gathered her feet under her, and his eyes widened; it was the only way he might convey that he was not ready for her to leave, that if she would but let him, there was a response he might give her...

"Sleep soundly, Master."

His message was disregarded.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Like fragile ornaments, Eragon had broken that which he cared most for.

He remembered not what he did all the following morning, aside from that he sought Elva out and came up empty-handed. She evaded him at every turn, and the Rider-link was closed to him on her end. He wondered if he would ever speak with her again.

She loved him. It was rich and earnest and clean, without blemish. His heart ached so profoundly that he wished to cut it out to be done with the sensation forevermore. Alas, the continent already had two heartless Riders; he must soldier on.

What in Gûntera's name might he do about it, though? Return her feelings? He did not, and could not. But neither could he allow her to continue in the way she had, stuffing her affection down to the bottoms of her soles and putting up a brave mirage of carefree indifference. The world had lost all color since he found out her burden had become so unbearable; he did not wish to speak with Arya or Saphira, or anyone at all. He only wished to force his mind to dissect this conundrum until he arrived at any somewhat-tolerable compromise. What that might be, he hadn't the faintest idea, but it had to exist, didn't it?

Elva needed to be seen to first.

He laughed at himself when he realized he might have simply asked Blödhgarm whom he'd run into that first eve. Hadn't he heard the panther-like elf speaking with his apprentice outside his tent? Such a simple solution, and he cursed himself hoarse when he saw it far, far too late to be of any use to either of them. He could have been waiting for her, arms crossed, when she returned, and their exchange might not have needed be so venomous and wrenching.

Thinking on how strands of hair and lips had glided over his back the first time... salty tears the second... all she wanted was to be with him. She asked for the one thing he could not give. Even if now he found it necessary to remind himself why that was so more and more often.

At last, wholly disappointed with his lot in life – and hers – he stormed away from his half-nibbled midday meal and presented himself to Nasuada, begging for marching orders of any kind. It had to be better than stewing.

"I am sorry," she told him gently, fanning herself; her title required her to wear the most stifling, voluminous outfits, and she was always trying her best to counteract the heat. "This endless pilgrimage is as tedious as it is long, and I too find myself yearning for some distraction from the repetition. But there's simply no task that requires a Rider's ability."

"Are there horses that need shoeing?" he begged. "Or sick and injured I may-"

"_No,"_ she insisted with a laugh. "Though none will ever accuse you of being aloof and a man not of the people. Just be grateful for the rest; tonight we camp near Belatona, and when dawn breaks..."

Eragon nodded, brought back to reality with a ungainly thump. "Aye. When dawn breaks."

The inside of the tent was so still and quiet for that moment that when the dwarf guard on duty outside suddenly shouted, "Elva Shiningbrow to see Lady Nasuada!", not even those of elven ancestry could disguise their flinches.

"Enter."

In walked the waif, bandana in place and hair tied up at odd angles, rigid and full of purpose. She paused when she noticed Eragon standing there, lips a thin line, then brushed by him. "My Lady, I would speak with Arya. It is a personal affair."

"Arya is needed here," Nasuada told her gently, upper lip curling. Eragon knew she cared little for Elva – her aversion to magic and all things unnatural in play – though she valued the witch-child's insights and abilities enough that she did not allow personal feelings to influence her decisions. "There comes news from Queen Islanzadí that is of the utmost-"

"It shall not take long."

Nasuada pursed her lips at being spoken over. Eragon very nearly reprimanded her himself, but he could not bring himself to do so on that day. It was no longer his right. "Then say it here and now, in front of all gathered, or wait until we are finished."

"Very well." Elva strode up to Arya, and the latter cocked an eyebrow, her gaze flicking in Eragon's direction for the briefest moment. None were prepared for when the gauntlet smacked into the ground, inches from the tip of Arya's boot.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jörmundur blustered, scandalized. "Such a gesture is-"

"A formal request for a duel," Elva finished for him, eyes never straying from her target for even the barest moment. "I, Elva, Daughter Of Magic and Dragonless Rider, do hereby challenge Arya Dröttningu to a contest of blades, to take place in thirty minutes. Should she refuse, let her cowardice be known throughout Alagaësia. Should she accept, may we fight until one yields or collapses – for any reason." The last part held a bloodthirsty undertone that set Eragon's skin to crawling. What did she intend?

"Why?" was Arya's simple question. There was no need to mince words when one would do.

"You may feel free to ask... if you defeat me. Will you decline?"

Nasuada sighed. "Elva, with all that goes on in this country, surely such grudges can-"

"I told you this was a personal affair!" she barked scathingly. "Perhaps next time you'll take it to heart instead of assuming that everything I do is of no consequence!"

Eragon cringed inwardly, and rightly so; Jörmundur's sword was out and his grizzled face set as he rumbled, "Child, you go too far when daring to speak to the head of the Varden in such a disrespectful tone."

"Will you decline?" she reiterated, ignoring all others.

The elven princess did not look to Nasuada, nor her commander. Her eyes were only for Eragon. Carefully, painstakingly, he opened a mental connection with her while ensuring that Elva could not worm her way in.

_Explain this._

_I wish that I could,_ he answered. _Know only that... I believe there might have been a lot more to your observation than I realized._

_She is going to wind up as a bleeding carcass if she cannot control her zeal, _Arya warned urgently. _Hasty acts such as this one do not endear her to the Varden, nor to me. Her misguided attempts to impress you will only cause us all pain._

"Your moment to confer with my associate has expired," Elva growled, correctly guessing what had been going on in the air over her head. "Answer, or accept a loss by default and concede that I am the superior warrior."

"Do not presume to force my hand," Arya said, voice like shattering glass. But Elva did not respond, merely stood there with her fists at her side. At last, Arya sighed deeply, and said, "You will not reconsider?"

"Never."

"Then no, I will not decline. May I choose my weapon?"

"You may."

Arya nodded, a quick, bird-like motion. "And the battleground?"

"It matters not. Anywhere you fancy."

"As you wish. Wait for me beyond the ridge with the bent willow. I shall be punctual."

"See that you are. Good day, My Lady... Master." Though she spoke to him, she did not meet his eyes as she spun on her heel and stormed from the royal tent.

"That was-" But Nasuada fell silent when Eragon held up a hand. He ticked his finger back and forth in time to Elva's retreating footsteps, then lowered it and nodded when he was satisfied she would not overhear. "That was unexpected."

"That was inexcusable!" Jörmundur bellowed. "Of all the puerile, dunderheaded-"

"No," Eragon interrupted quietly. "Dunderheaded, absolutely, but... not puerile. That was one of the most mature things I've ever seen her do."

"Really?" Nasuada asked incredulously. "By what standard?"

"By the standard that she did not run screaming into the tent and lunge at me," Arya admitted with a weary air. "It was a formal challenge; there's no shame in it."

"But why? Why challenge you at all? I simply don't understand what's got into that child..."

Eragon was on the cusp of confessing when Arya said, "I'll just have to ask her when she yields."

"By all means, please do. As a matter of fact, I may order her to tell me when this is said and done; there are plenty of Imperial troops to slay without turning on each other!"

As Eragon left, he contacted Arya again. _For what it is or isn't worth... I am sorry._

_No need. Even if you drove her to this, it was her own decision. And speak not on her reasons; I'd rather remain ignorant until afterward._

_As you like it._

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Eragon arrived at the appointed location shortly before Arya was due, gliding on Saphira's back. He hurriedly dismounted, noticing Angela and Solembum were with her.

"Please stop this foolishness," Eragon pleaded the moment he jogged up to them. "It's not too late – apologize, and say that you weren't-"

"It _is_ too late," Elva spat. "Your words accomplish nothing."

_Must this be the only way? _Saphria asked her. _You will not ingratiate yourself by snapping your jaw at friends and fellows. Could you not speak with Arya, discuss this until all is clear?_

"No, Bjartskular, I could not. This can only be settled with steel."

"I'm afraid you're not going roll back the tide this time, Shadeslayer," Angela told them in a bemused tone. "The little upstart has it in her head that she needs to ding her shiny purple blade on the princess's armor a score of times. Telling her to change her mind will only upset her and make her attacks more wild and undisciplined."

"Thank you for the analysis," Elva muttered.

"Anytime."

"Can't you go a single day without attacking someone?" Eragon demanded, furious with her rash decision. "Can't you ever leave well enough alone?"

"You mean in emulation of when _you _left well enough alone?" Elva flung back. "You asked, over and over you asked until you had all the information you required. Well, look now upon the crops you have sown and that Arya shall likely reap! I am forced into action because of your incessant need to learn all there is to learn! And they call _me_ a child... bah!"

Piercing her mind with his own, he said, _So I am to believe that this is a battle for my heart? Simple as that?_

_Simple as that. And one last thing. _A thunderstorm of impossible proportions rocked his skull, and he fell to the ground, gasping. _Don't EVER try that again. Ask to be let in, or stay out._

"Aye," he whispered aloud.

"Eragon?" Angela asked mildly, as if not truly concerned.

"I'll be fine. With... perhaps some water..."

"Allright, just thought I might ask to be polite."

"You're too kind."

"How very true." Angela clapped her hands, then said, "Saphira, will you be a dear and remove your human counterpart from the battlefield? We wouldn't want his pretty face trampled."

_If I must,_ Saphira said, picking him up gently in one paw and taking one mighty bound away from Elva to a safe distance. When they touched down and he staggered to his feet, he was startled to see Roran and Katrina converging on his position, the latter puffing slightly more to keep up with the former's hastened steps.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked.

"There is to be a duel," Roran said, eyebrows drawing together. "Is there not? We were misinformed?"

"So you're here as spectators for this travesty," he grunted.

"Aye. Loring happened to be passing Lady Nasuada's tent when she rang out her challenge; I wondered if he joked. Doesn't exactly trouble about her volume, eh?"

Katrina hesitated before asking, "Did... is your young apprentice really going to face an _elf_ in armed combat? Has she gone mad?"

Eragon ran a hand through his hair as he watched Solembum in his young-boy form whispering a few last-minute suggestions to his student of the blade... and saw Arya cresting the ridge, now in full armor with an elven blade at her hip. Behind her came Nasuada and her entire retinue, Jeod and Helen, other former residents of Carvahall, and droves upon droves of Varden, all eager for the divergence from the monotony of trudging... and to be among the first to learn which woman triumphed in what was sure to be a dinner-table topic for decades.

"Mad as a deep-dwelling hermit."

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: So here we have a grudge match in the works! Good scene in the tent, too... I wanted the moment Eragon figures out she's been sneaking around doing this to be the same moment they clear the air (mostly). Things are still weird, but now I feel like they understand each other a lot better.<p>

By the way, the next chapter will be from Elva's point of view; I was going to note it with the little diamonds like Paolini does but FFnet removed them, of course. Oh well!


	8. Animus

_Chapter Eight – Animus_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Nimble fingers bit into Elva Shiningbrow's tender shoulder flesh, loosening her muscles for their coming use. Not for the first time, she questioned herself as to the wisdom of her actions. This truly was necessary, wasn't it? Nothing would change unless she sparked the change herself. Not that it made what she was about to do any easier.

"Thank you, Angela, but that's enough."

"If you're sure, Elva. Just remember to guard your face, keep your elbows up."

"I will..."

Eragon was nearby. _Eragon._ She sighed when she saw his anxious frown; he berated himself so. She was doing this for _him, _didn't he see? Of course not. He never saw anything until after the fact. And for that, she loved him, no matter how often she tore at her hair over it.

She drew Skölir and checked its edge before replacing it. Pointless, reassuring action; it was always sharp. Eragon had ensured that it be made that way, for her sake. Truly, that was the reason for her love; his deference to others' needs over his own.

His easy laugh... his radiant, shy smile... his alarmed sputterings when she did or said something he ill expected. All of this and more.

That was why. Why she loved him... and why, like a mealy-minded dolt, she delivered herself into the hands of one who most likely would end her days prematurely.

"Combatants, to your marks!"

Jörmundur was officiating. Brilliant choice; he would be fair and impartial in his judgments, though Elva had no doubt he was inwardly rooting for the tall slattern to emerge victorious. At least she knew Jörmundur would not allow his feelings to hold any sway, and that was a boon as there was likely no member of the Varden who would lend her any support. They all wanted Arya to prevail. She was the elven ambassador and had proven herself time and time again on the battleground. They liked her. She was distant, yes, but likeable.

Elva was not.

Meaningless. She would win. She _must._

For a long moment after again drawing her dagger, she stared into its violet depths, imagining the levels of manipulation Rhunön had to utilize in order to circumvent her binding oath never to construct another weapon. Apparently, the first time had given her a taste of what she missed, as she then sent Eragon to literally _dig up_ a new supply of the ever-rarer brightsteel with which to forge Brisingr. Eragon had also mentioned that Orik assisted with Skölir, as he was already an established smith in his own right. The second time, there had been no Orik or any other dwarf on hand, and Eragon was forced to be the ancient elf's surrogate arms himself. On both occasions, the results were impeccable; perfect instruments of destruction. For better or for worse, Elva could not say.

"There are trained medics on hand should we need them," Nasuada's right-arm was prattling on. Long-winded, that one. "Should either combatant yield and the other neglect to acknowledge the surrender, archers are readied to take whatever measures to uphold the honor of the duel. Are we clear?"

"Aye," Arya responded.

"Aye," Elva echoed.

"Ready positions!" They obeyed, Elva flipping her dagger around to a backhanded grip, Arya merely raising the business end of her slender elven sword. "At the signal, you may begin – and may your swords stay sharp, but your wits sharper."

With that, he began to pace from the field and toward the spot where Nasuada stood, harried expression in place. Elva reached out and grasped at her mind, feeling her stark worry over both of them... mostly for the resources she might lose should one of them perish. Elva knew this, and still she did not bear a grudge against the would-be monarch; it was precisely this shrewd, ever-calculating reason that had kept them from being swept aside by Galbatorix's forces long ago. Elva did not expect to be hugged or fawned over – only to be used for the common good.

"It is not too late to yield now," Arya reminded her quietly.

"It is, and we both know that."

"Then _atra du evarínya ono varda,_ youngling."

"No stars watch over me," Elva countered, voice the barest whisper. "Nary a one."

There was a loud din as a spiked mace struck a shield; any noise would have done as a signal. Arya did not attack, but merely began to circle, eyes wary, muscles expanding and contracting with a sort of fluidity that made Elva swallow; this would not be so easy as she had surmised. And she had surmised a towering ordeal.

"_HAVE AT THEE!"_

Elva's first attack was easily blocked, and with Arya's crossguard. Would she not even defend herself with her blade? Was Elva so trifling an opponent that she did not deserve to be faced with any semblance of seriousness?

The following seven attacks were equally thwarted.

Then Arya herself attacked, and Elva immediately found herself outclassed. It was almost more than she could bear to take, but fend them off she did, digging her heels in and retreating a step when she had no alternative. Giving ground was not her idea of a match well fought.

In desperation, she feinted right, then darted forward and stabbed upward, catching Arya off her guard by the barest amount; instead of blocking the strike outright, she ducked her head backward to avoid being nicked. Grinning darkly, Elva swung the blade to her right and down...

But Arya had seen that coming as well, and dodged – though she did not escape the tiny scratch on her arm, an inch across and skin-deep. That was not a wound that would win her the day. Still, grim satisfaction blossomed up from within Elva; she had drawn first blood. Against a denizen of Ellesméra! Perhaps her challenge had not been for naught.

Arya raised her eyebrows; it was all the reaction she gave. Elva expected as much from a battle-worn elf like her. Then a flurry of sword thrusts were spent on her, and Elva had to force Skölir to move with more grace and speed than ever she had previously.

The second to last swipe cost her a lock of hair.

"I am not here to employ you as my barber!" Elva thundered, dashing in, turning aside a blow and coming up to pierce the underside of her jaw...

And she failed. She failed so completely that she was knocked free by a swordless fist, but she rolled in midair and landed standing. The temptation to use magic thrummed behind her temples, but she turned it away; if this became a magician's duel, she would most assuredly lose and be annihilated in the process. None could cast spells in the heat of battle with more effectiveness than Arya Dröttningu... save perhaps a Rider.

That black temptation grew over the course of the next several minutes as both women clashed and sprang around one another, searching for a faltering that might lead to a killing stroke. Elva shut down the part of her mind that held her power; she would have trouble reaching it in time if the need suddenly arose, but it was far easier than trying to actively ignore something so prominent and enticing. The door could be unlocked when she had won.

Every movement and feeling told her this would not be her victory. Lying to herself no longer worked. Each second that passed was one second closer to her shame. On she battled, refusing to yield, desperate to at least show that even if defeated, she had given her all.

_Watch me, Beloved,_ she thought sadly. _See how I fight for you. See how I willingly engage in a futile skirmish. A pathetic showing, but it is all for my master. You are worthy of so much more..._

The knuckles on both hands had been rapped soundly at one time or another; they ached with fire, and it became increasingly harder to grip her weapon. Which made her less surprised when the dagger was rousted free and into the dirt a few yards away.

Elva made to dart in any direction, any at all, but the sword at her throat was too close, and the elf wielding it commanded a quickness she had no prayer of rivaling.

"Yield."

_"NEVER!"_

Arya's answer was to draw the blade back, raise it, paint a stripe of crimson across Elva's cheek and return it to its initial position inside her neck. All during the tiniest fraction of a throb of her triphammering pulse.

"Yield, Argetbrun."

Elva felt the blood oozing down her chin – heard the crowd gasp when they eventually realized what had happened – but could not bring herself to utter the word. She would not lose. She could not have lost already...

Alas, she had. She had lost before she begun.

"Strike me down," Elva said through gritted teeth. "It would be kinder."

"No."

"Every move I made, every opening I attempted to exploit... I aimed to budge mountains from their foothills. Am I really so poorly prepared for battle?"

"You fight an elf," Arya reminded her coldly. "There is a reason the list of humans who have defeated my race in one-on-one combat is empty. Now... speak."

"I can't."

"You will say one of two things; either yield, or explain to me why I have you at swordpoint in the first place, as per your promise."

"Sorry, my dear," Elva said with a hollow laugh. "You'll have to run me through."

"I will not. But I can humiliate you in front of an audience."

Elva blinked. By the time her eyelids reopened, another slash was parallel to the first on her cheek. Both stung in the open air.

"Is that what stokes your fires, Arya-elda? Scratching me?" The elf did not rise to her words. "Please, just remove me from the mortal coil, because I can't stay here any longer and watch this go on. It's too repulsive."

"What is?"

"Your lukewarm treatment of my Ebrithil, that's what! Yanking him to and fro, playing with his heart as if it were some bauble from a tinker's cart!"

Instantly, Arya's eyes took on a duller cast. "What gives you the right to speak on it?"

"_I_ give me the right!"

"You meddling, loathsome- I have absolutely no mastery over Eragon's feelings! Do not blame me for how he swoons or does not swoon, it is of his own doing!"

"Then why do you dither between distancing him, welcoming his friendship, and promising him more?"

Arya did not respond for a long time, and neither of them moved so much as a strand of hair in the still wind. Arya's eyes were widened, though nothing more could be garnered from her features. Elva was livid, panting and sweating and enraged enough to spit molten rock.

At long last, Arya took a step forward, eyebrows descending. "You love him."

"_Silence!"_

Then, the daughter of Islanzadí did the one thing that could make Elva feel worse. She frowned in pity – the open, deep-running pity of someone who understands.

"The day shall come when I peel that very look from your face and feast on it," Elva said in a deadly undertone. "You... have no..."

"Yield," Arya repeated in a tone devoid of emotion. "So I may be done with this."

"Why should I?"

"Because I will not purposefully allow myself to be defeated in a civilized duel," Arya whispered. "Even for a spurned lover filled with the ache of rejection. Neither will I end your life and grant you a sweet, blithe escape from your worldly concerns. So you may either surrender with dignity... or I'll defeat you without."

Elva knew what may come if she refused again; being knocked unconscious by a blow similar to when her master had used the flat of his blade. Whimsy in the face of her defeat. Losing to the being she despised most was enough degradation to be going on with.

Elva raised her voice. "I yield."

There was an eruption of cheers and shouting, and the din of swords banging on shields – someone had scared up a trumpet. Elva dropped to her knees and grabbed large handfuls of the grass, unsure of why she would need them.

Arya's hand was next to her head, offering to assist her in standing. A noble gesture of goodwill, one that Elva appreciated. One that her pride would not allow her to accept.

"Withdraw that or I'll bite it off."

"Eragon comes," she whispered warningly. "Before he does, I will state this once and only once for your benefit: I do not lead him on, I will not in future, and never have I in the past. He is a most precious friend and a stalwart ally, but our relationship ends there. On that, you have my word as elf, princess, and warrior all."

"You captivate him unknowingly, then. Isn't that so much the worse?"

"Perhaps," Arya accorded, a speck of regret in her ostensibly disinterested words. "But I cannot eliminate his designs – regardless of how ardently I try at every turn. He is... tenacious."

"A tenacity that does not extend to me."

There was a slight _thump_ as Skölir landed before her; the elf had retrieved it. "This will likely only further disgruntle you, but you have earned my respect and admiration this day, Argetbrun. Any who would go this far for the one she holds in highest esteem, whose devotion runs so very deep into her core..." Her voice trailed away; Eragon was probably within earshot. Elva couldn't bring herself to raise her eyes and see for herself. "Your courage is without question. The whole of the Varden could learn from your attempt."

"Learn from _yours,_ you mean."

"What did I do, really? Defended myself. _You_ took on insurmountable odds and lasted far longer than many of your race would have. We need that kind of heedless determination, for the foe we face at the end of our journey is terrible. I am honored we crossed blades."

In spite of herself, and her burgeoning hatred, Elva could not lie; Arya's speech was worthy of a first-rate ambassador. Not only that, but the words she spoke when none were listening were worth at least as much as the others, if not more.

"As am I," she said as quietly as she could manage.

Arya inclined her head, did the same in the direction Eragon was coming from, then turned and strode away toward camp without a backward glance at any of the men or nobles gathered. It was a magnificent exit that Elva abhorred her for.

"She didn't ridicule my age."

"How do you mean?" Eragon said, surprised by the statement.

"I expected it: 'You fought well _for your age'_. But she resisted the urge."

"Perhaps it's because you fought well for one of any age, Quickknife." When she raised an eyebrow at him, he smiled. "It's what the Urgals have taken to calling you. Didn't I say?"

"Charming."

"Indeed. But enough talk of Urgals and titles." He ran a hand along the surface of his face. "At any rate, the words Arya spoke toward the end... they were not mere flattery."

A bitter laugh escaped Elva's throat. "You expect for me to cede that she is a worthy adversary and allow my quarrel to drop, now, eh? You truly are an optimist through and through."

"Why shouldn't you? You have come here and proven yourself; you are not to be taken lightly in any sense, and Arya conceded that the-"

"Arya made me an object of public mockery! From this day, none among our forces can ever see me as anything more than 'that upstart who took on an elf and a Rider and only succeeded in perspiring!' I will be a joke told over tankards of mead across Surda for generations!"

Eragon grimaced as he knelt to inspect the cuts on her face. "Nonsense. I would name myself impressed by your achievements of the day, if I didn't know firsthand of your prowess due to our own preceding bouts."

"Leave it," she muttered, pushing his hand away.

"It needs tending t-"

_SLAP!_

The air rang with the sound of Elva's palm striking Eragon's cheek. Blinking with shock, he glared at her, trying to fathom her frame of mind.

"Tend yourself!" she spat angrily. "This is but a pitiful reminder of how lacking my skills are. I'll bear it until I have earned the right to remove it myself. Excuse me."

Elva snatched up her dagger and marched away from him and toward where Saphira, Angela and Solembum awaited. There were few men she wanted to talk with less than her master at that moment. As she approached, she was sickened to see Stronghammer and his wife there; more interference, more salt in the wound.

"That was-"

"Please do not encourage me," Elva hissed at the pregnant redhead. "I've done myself a wonderful disservice today that I hope to never repeat."

"You haven't," Roran said, no hint of pretense in his words; the man rarely spoke things that he did not believe. It was a quality Elva could respect. "Watching the two of you square off was like watching hunger-crazed wolves competing for a scrap of meat. I could scarcely follow."

"But I _lost,_" she stressed, as if the fact had merely been forgotten and needed be brought to light anew. "All that will be remembered is Arya's victory over the brash young witch-child who knows not when she's biting off more than she can chew."

"I think you're mistaken about that. But we shall see."

"You defended yourself bravely," Katrina said – and Elva nearly swallowed her tongue when the top of her head was kissed. "And commendably. Perhaps womanhood is not so far off for you."

As she watched them go to rejoin their cousin, Elva sputtered and grasped for words that would not come.

_I agree, _Saphira put in, rising and stretching out her long neck. _If Eragon had learned to handle himself with Zar'roc as smoothly as you've mastered that small claw, a few more of our battles would have been won in a more timely fashion._

_I am warmed by your words, O Dragon. Even if I cannot agree._

Not for the first time, Saphira leaned in and touched her snout to Elva's forehead; the youth smiled. That it was a sad smile did not undo how good it felt for her to be able to find one in her darkest hour. Then two massive wings unfurled and the dragon shot into the air, gliding after her partner-of-mind-and-heart.

"Might you enlighten an old herbalist as to the reason for this territorial marking contest?"

Elva did not turn to Angela as she answered, "I'd rather not."

"If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say it may be connected to that little ruse you enlisted my help with a pair of evenings ago," the curly-haired woman said shrewdly. "Imitating another woman's spoor? A perilous game you play, young witchling."

"Blame Roran's mate for the idea," Elva muttered, shifting an eye to gaze sidelong at her. Why this oddity of a woman had taken it upon herself to shepherd a changeling's growing intellect and capabilities, she would never quite know. "Even so... the game is up, if you must be made so aware of all events within our scruffy band."

Angela's smile was as cryptic as it was mischievous. "I must, I must."

Chewing the inside of her lip, Elva yanked her headband free, scrutinized the intricate designs for a long moment. Then she raised Skölir and wiped the modest amount of drying elf-blood against it, staining the material permanently – one side of the blade's tip down, one across. The effect of her incidental decoration pleased her.

"_Ilf carnz orodüm."_ _It is one's obligation. _She was speaking as much to herself as to the herbalist.

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: I'm sorry if this duel didn't quite work out the way you expected! I was tempted to let Elva win, but the truth of the matter is she's fighting an elf, so no matter how super-charged she is she just hasn't practiced enough to beat Arya yet (and she probably couldn't even after years more). Still, she's got that Rider-enhanced speed and strength so she put up a hell of a fight before getting her ass handed to her. Next up is the aftermath, and following that... Belatona!<p> 


	9. Exordium

_Chapter Nine – Exordium_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

As the populace of Surda and the Varden marched the last leg of their journey to Belatona, the air was rife with tales of the elven ambassador and a disturbing violet-eyed witch challenging each other near the bent willow. Those who had seen it regaled those who did not, and it spread to every man, woman and child.

Roran's prediction proved to be accurate: Elva was suddenly being whispered about as if some fabled goddess of old, or else a demon. Many claimed she was a Shade who merely blackened her hair; they said her eyes betrayed her true nature. Others insisted it was more mundane sorcery and spellwork, albeit done with astonishing agency. Conversely, only one or two made the barest attempt to mock her performance; as their fellows were quick to remind, "no one human can defeat an elf."

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Eragon went to Elva's tent that night, determined to speak. In the morning, warfare would engulf them, and they had no guarantees that another opportunity would come.

"I'm sorry, but she's very tired," Greta whispered. "And in a frightful state besides. Not sure she'll much care for a visitor – even a Rider such as yourself."

"It's allright," came the resigned voice from behind her. "He may enter... and you may leave me while we speak."

Nodding, Greta flashed him a weary smile that tightened the wrinkles in her face before ambling out into the night.

"You ought not command her about as if she were your servant," Eragon said as he entered. "It isn't... oh! I'm so sorry, I was unaware!"

"What?" Elva demanded, folding her arms over her chest. "Haven't you ever spied a lady in a state of half-dress, you womanizing rapscallion?"

"Not often," he said, turning for the dual purpose of averting his eyes and preventing her from seeing the redness creep over him. There had to be something he could say that wasn't crude or fumbling. "You, ah... have lovely legs." Alas, he had not found it.

"They are, aren't they?" It was only a ghost of her former joviality, but at least it was there and she was laughing. "My long-lost Sir Eragon the Bashful returns! You may look now."

When Eragon turned, he saw that she was wearing a conservative white chemise, covering all but head, hands and feet. It did nothing to slow his blood pumping or return his face to its usual hue.

"Is even _this_ too revealing? Must I wear a winter cloak and heavy boots to bed?"

"No, no," he insisted. "I'm just... not used to- forget about that. I haven't come here to discuss your wardrobe, but more pressing matters."

Now the corner of her lip turned upward. "Like what I'm wearing _under _my robe? Let me give you a hint: the garments come to a number smaller than one."

Flushing deeper, he coughed into his fist and then snapped, "Enough! Elva, I wish to address your duel and the reasons behind it."

"My apologies." Now she appeared miserable and broken; he supposed she had been that way when he came in, only concealing it with more effort. There was no façade now. "I promised I would cease tormenting you. Those promises only mean something so long as I recall them."

"Did you really challenge Arya over me?" Eragon shifted uncomfortably. "That does not mean I believe myself worthy of that. I just wish to know why."

"Because she's dangling a carrot on a string in front of my favorite donkey," Elva said with a hollow smirk. "Any lack-wit can see that she's fetching and shapely. What's more, if you've been a part of this campaign for longer than two days, you've no doubt heard of her grand deeds and indefatigable fortitude. If she were a fish, no fisherman with a crown's worth of foresight would ever throw her back to sea. She says she has no designs on you, that she wishes you to stop chasing after her... but then she spars with you, or wipes tears all over your shoulder. You're being torn in two directions with her on either side pulling."

"It isn't fair of you to say this. She's... all blame lies with me. I ought to have better control of myself, as Oromis-elda taught us. He would be ashamed of the way we behave."

Elva bowed her head; it took her a long moment to speak again. "Aye, he would." Then she pitched forward to her knees. "Rider, draw your sword."

"Why?"

"_Draw it!"_

Draw it he did. "What would you have me do with it?"

"Behead me."

Gritting his teeth, Eragon bit out a word best not repeated then sheathed Brisingr. "Why would you even bother speaking that, you suicidal cur?"

"Because I have disgraced you greatly." Her ragged breathing echoed inside the tent strangely, as if they were in a moss-laden cavern. "Showing no restraint whatsoever, I have pursued you, clutched at your sleeve and crawled into your bed, deceived you into thinking me another woman, jealously challenged the one who holds more sway over you than I. No other Rider's apprentice would dare overstep her bounds in the way I have. Death is not a fitting enough punishment."

"Balderdash." When she glared up at him, as if enraged that he did not contemplate her request long enough, he sighed and said, "I ought to set you mucking the pigpens or other such, but there's little sense in decapitating you over a few wanton advances."

"But you're repulsed by me. I'm fully aware, and I- and in spite of this, I remain undaunted. It must be tiresome."

"Elva, you are needed," he went on, setting aside her relentlessness for the nonce. "We are all of us needed. The way you handled your dagger today? Strong evidence that your assistance in the battle to come would be greatly appreciated."

"But I _lost!"_ she shouted. "Does no one remember?"

"You lost against an _elf,_" he insisted. "Think what you might do against a legion of human soldiers! And need I remind you that I myself have been bested by many an elven opponent? My point is, whether or not this... dance of ours continues, it will not negate your value as a member of the Varden. Nor your value as a friend to me."

Elva held his gaze for a long moment, purple wells of blistering flame threatening to consume him. Then, just when he was about to look away, Elva did so herself, lip trembling. For the first time he could remember, he had not been the one to flinch.

"I hold no value. Do not lie."

"Elva, you are-"

"_Do not lie!"_

"_I do not!"_ he shouted, taking two strides forward and clamping down on her upper arms with more pressure than he intended. She winced away from him, breath accelerating from fear, and he relaxed his fingers until his touch was light as a downy feather. "I do not. Honestly, do you really think yourself so feeble because Arya won a single duel?"

"Eragon... I thought it would be so _easy_. Being a Rider. All the things I learned from wandering through the minds of others, the vast knowledge that merged and distilled into what I am today... I expected a simple thing like learning how to take up a blade to be child's play. As it turns out, it is much more difficult in practice – as is magic, and diplomacy, and, ah... those things related to infatuation. My far-seeing was my _only_ natural boon, and now that it has diminished somewhat, I am merely a passable warrior, of which we have myriads. One who can't unravel the subtle mystery of how to coexist with other people. Useless."

"Then you're beneficial as my companion. It is enough to my way of thinking."

Elva's hand reached up to cup his cheek. "Think me a sniveling parasite, but it is nice to hear you name me as friend once in a while. Reassuring, in a pathetic respect."

Their positioning was far too intimate; Eragon knew this. He cast about for a way to lessen the tension, for a way that would also help lessen the sting of the day's defeat. In the end, he decided to move one of his hands from her arm to the crown of her head, patting gently, and laced together a bit of the ancient language. "I have faith in you, Elva-_finiarel-kona."_

Elva's eyes widened, and the corner of her mouth quirked upward uncertainly. "Finiarel? You... think I show great promise?"

"Is this the face of a liar?"

"No," she snorted derisively, even as her cheeks glowed. "Much though I pretend you sometimes do, we both know you couldn't lie in front of a hearth, let alone tell falsehoods."

"Then it is so."

"It must be."

He lowered his hand from her hair and traced a finger first along her two light scars, then the outer edge of her dragon's mark, staring into its silvery sheen and wondering at how it had come to be there. Two blighted eyes closed in bliss, and a hum sounded in her throat as she swayed on her feet. The closer his palm came to her forehead, the brighter both of their marks lit-

And the connection swelled, and all the world fell away. There were only the two Riders, each and every shadowy corner of separate beings illuminated without exception and proven to be white as lilies, wrapped in a blanket of peace and belonging. Souls intertwined.

The next moment, Eragon was lambasted by her suffering at the hands of his wrongly-phrased blessing. This was the one and only time it was open to him; all other times he'd come close to it, she had hidden it away, shielding him from the worst of her even when he had blundered through its darkness just after the Agaetí Blödhren. Being plunged head-first into the mire was the most disquieting thing he'd ever endured... and yet he celebrated within it. For at every turn, he felt Elva, everywhere was sweet Elva who had been battered by the anger and fear of men and emerged not only victorious, but virtuous. Indeed, this was a warrior's heart.

A warrior's heart that sought his own.

Elva backed up a step, hands pushing his arm away as she took a shaky breath, staring up at him with saucer-round violet irises.

"I-" he began, and his voice squeaked. He cleared his throat and began again. "That was not what I intended. Please forgive my action."

"Think not on it," she panted, clutching at her chest absentmindedly. "But... it was good to feel your presence once more, even if the experience was a touch... raw."

He fruitlessly searched for a way to apologize, or even begin to discuss what they had shared, try to make any sense of it. In the end, he turned toward the tent flap and said, "We must rest for the coming war; dawn is mere hours away. Goodnight, Elva-elda."

"Rest well, Shur'tugal."

Eragon bustled away and took hastened strides toward his own tent. He dimly registered one of his guard-elves close behind. When he arrived and began readying for his half-sleep, Saphira surprised him by asking a question when he had thought her to be slumbering.

_What was that?_

_What was what?_

_The odd disturbance in our connection. It was as if a third presence were trying to make itself known to us. Might it have been Murtagh?_

_Nay, _he reassured her quickly. _Only Elva._

_Elva? Ahh... the mark. I had not felt her invade our mind-link in some time; I'd been wondering if it had decayed and fallen away from her._

_Then wonder no more,_ he grunted as he shunted a few more drops of power into Beloth the Wise's belt. _Now I must rest._

_Very well, little one. Prepare for tomorrow's challenges._

And then he was in his bedroll and staring at the ceiling, fretting about his young apprentice and their bond. It grew ever more complicated.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

It was nearly an hour before the sun would rise when he roused himself, bathed and shaved and dressed as expediently as one who knows the luxury of a moderate pace has long ago forsaken him. His belt of concealed diamonds was in place, holding up the scabbard that carried Brisingr. Aren was tight around his finger, and he pulled gloves on to hide it and his mark. All was ready.

Blödhgarm was waiting outside the tent for him, bluish fur rippling in the light, chill breeze. "We are at your service, Argetlam."

"Let us hope I do not have need of it," he sighed. "But that is good to hear."

_Good morning, _Saphira told him with a great yawn, flashing her deadly incisors.

_Morning, yes – but good? That remains to be seen._

_As you say._ She stretched her front legs, then her wings to their fullest, then settled. _Do we walk or fly to where the Varden are congregating?  
><em>

_Walk, I think. The enemy might spot us in the air before we attack. Our first task is to seek Nasuada's council._

_Then let us away. I yearn to test their mettle._

Eragon always shuddered to hear the eagerness in her tone when they spoke of battle. Dragons truly relish the opportunity to rend and maim, though they do not seek it out needlessly for its own sake.

Nasuada was wearing trousers and armor, as she was wont to do whenever they marched on a city. She spotted Saphira's blue hide long before she noticed Eragon beside her. When they were within easy speaking distance, she greeted them. "Here we are at the dawn of another day of bloodletting. Be you ready?"

"Aye, My Lady," he said, twisting his hand over his sternum. "As a man can be to cut down other men."

"Your distaste is noble, Rider. Let us pray all this is not vanity."

"What would you have us do?"

"Stay here," she told him with a wry smile. "But that is impractical, given how much aid you might render. Therefore, I want you to hold back until we have just begun to test Belatona's defenses. We are unlikely to catch them unawares, being that they and Feinster are so close. I should think once they have dug in for a long and exhausting battle, if shortly afterward a dragon were to descend from the heavens..."

"Catch them unawares on the _second_ offensive," he said with a nod. "That seemed to work before, though it was because we were tardy. I like it. We shall wait until the din of steel grows louder before we join you."

"Very good." The regal head of their commander nodded to Saphira. "Be you ready, Brightscales?"

_My teeth, talons and tail are at your service, Lady._

"A grand largess, indeed; it makes me feel we have already won."

"Don't forget little old me."

All turned to see Elva, decked out in glinting plate mail, breeches and boots. Hair up and bandana in place, jaw set, hand on her hilt, she walked with all the confidence of a newly-coronated king.

"I wondered if you would join us at all," Nasuada asked pointedly. "After yesterday."

"Yesterday is a matter settled," Arya told them in a tone that brooked no argument. None were more startled than Elva herself to hear the words. "Let it die with the duel that settled it. Today is another one entirely that demands our full attention."

Nasuada nodded, more to herself than anyone. She turned from Arya back to the witch-child. "Are you sure you can handle another battle? Your powers-"

"Have been sealed by myself, My Lady. I hear the mutterings of all, but they do not ensorcell me any longer." She swallowed, as if a bitter pill lay in her throat. "As it were, all I might see that will be of use, I have already seen. Now there remains only the services my blade can lend you."

"Really?" Eragon asked, genuinely curious. "And what _have _you been seeing lately?"

She looked up at him, and he saw the sadness there. A gripping one that threatened to spill out from her throat and drown them all. But then it was gone – and he knew none else had noticed it to begin with. "My Lady, do not stray overly far from the Nighthawks. A time will come when you are tempted by a young boy's pained cry. I implore you, either ride _with_ them to the cry or turn a deaf ear."

A shiver passed up Nasuada's frame. "I trust your council."

"See that you do, or we'll be parted from someone far more estimable than one of Belatona's citizens. It is a cruel decision, but this is the right one."

"Anything more?"

Without directly looking into his eyes, she said, "Eragon. Please be a dear and renew those spells that grace your cousin's forge hammer, or delegate it to one of your guards. The wood in the handle has weakened from... repeated use."

Before Eragon could answer, Blödhgarm gestured sharply to one of the silver-haired elf women; she loped off into the pre-dawn.

"Inra is beyond capable in the arts of wards and detection of other spells," he reassured the Rider. "She will sense what gramarye you have lain upon the hammer and bolster it."

Eragon wanted to protest or demand to see to it himself, but the time had passed when he could so easily turn aside help from Islanzadí's forces. Every bit of his magic may be needed for his own battles. There was also that Roran could look after himself, and abundantly.

"That is all," Elva proclaimed, startling them out of individual reveries. "Except... may we all live to tell our grandchildren of this day."

_We shall,_ Saphira said to them all. It rang with determination.

Soon thereafter, Jörmundur arrived with a strong pot of horehound tea, evidently something of a tradition for him. It invigorated and warmed the bones, the sweetness and substance in the added honey lending them energy that did not sit heavily in the stomach. As they sipped, Elva drew near to Eragon and spoke in a low voice.

"Do not worry."

"Who worries?" he scoffed for her benefit. "Soon we shall be resting in our tents, another city captured and-"

"Please," she urged.

Eragon gaped at her. "About what?"

"About me." Her nose crinkled at the bridge when she accidentally inhaled a bit of steam. "This tea is too hot. I cannot drink it for fear I'll sweat it out before it is digested."

"Elva..."

"Remember what I said when you must. And you'll wheedle no more out of me on the topic, so I suggest you say that which is on your mind."

That could have been a hundred thousand things. Doggedly avoiding the harshest of them, he asked, "There seems to be a stain on your headband. Will it not be washed out?"

"It will not. Ever."

Startled by the finality with which she spoke, he slid a hand around the side of her neck and drew her head to his chest. Her teacup crashed to the ground.

"Your armor is cold," she said.

"That is unsurprising." But she did not pull away, despite her complaint. After a few more seconds, Eragon took a sip of his tea. Then, gaze on the milling men ready to throw down their lives for a doomed cause, he said, "Come back to me."

"Hmm?"

"Come back to me, alive and whole. If... I'm not sure how I might cope without my apprentice."

"Apprenticeships end," she reminded him. "You'll have to release me, one way or another."

He shook his head. "Not so with us. Or do you still think us merely master and student?"

"Then what else are we?"

"We are _breoal, _are we not? Of the same family." After a moment, when he noticed Elva was holding her breath, he added, "That is how I have come to think of you, anyway. I'll not be offended if you do not share-"

"We are," she whispered. "It fills me up like a spiced cordial to be kin to you. As long as you do not define it further than that."

Eragon grasped what she meant; she held out hope that they could pass beyond the realm of friendship into something more profound. That perhaps was not quite the truth; she did not _hope_ for it, she was not so foolish. But the longer any small, delusional part of her could believe it, the longer she could dream. And he did not speak on this, for he knew how comforting a dream could be – how inviting, how soothing. Empowering.

A trumpet sounded. Elva drew back and clasped his shoulder.

"I shall do my best not to shame you, Ebrithil."

"Not necessary. Both your effort... and my title. What you said struck a chord within me; there is nothing left for me to teach. I hereby name you Rider and Master, Elva Shiningbrow. My student... and my greatest success."

A lone tear escaped her guard before she reassembled her features into a savage mask of pride. "You aggrandize me beyond what I deserve, my master."

He waved her sentiment aside. "Watch over yourself."

"I watch over us all," she responded with a light shrug. Then, to his amazement, she bowed deeply, twisting her gauntlet-encased hand over her chest – he heard a small noise that may have been a sniffle or merely a breath – and then spun and dashed to Angela's side as the Varden moved toward the city walls.

Another day... another siege.

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: Sorry if you missed me yesterday, had a hair emergency. No really, I just had this stupidly busy day (which did involve a haircut, haha). Obliterator: she would have played dirty if she thought it would actually work. Remember how she was tempted to use magic? The only reason she didn't is because she knew Arya could use it with equal effectiveness - otherwise she wouldn't hesitate to pull out any bag of tricks.<p>

Time to sack a city!


	10. Quickknife

_Chapter Ten – Quickknife_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Saphira and Eragon soared over the carnage-streaked fields in front of Belatona's outer wall. Bodies littered its expanse between those still breathing, still struggling to uphold their ideals. It was at once both awesome and gruesome.

Saphira parted her jaws and roared, sending her battle cry into every atom of both Varden and Empire alike. A fierce cheer went up from their own ranks while the enemy stopped in their tracks, dismayed at the sight; this would spell their downfall.

_Their defenses will be our first target,_ Eragon told her. _The archers and those dumping hot pitch; paving the way for them to overrun the walls will end this that much sooner._

_Dwell not on the outcome or lessening their losses, _Saphira said reproachfully as she angled her wings to lower their altitude. _Only on doing what we must._

_I know._

The mighty dragon dipped to the proper angle as they swept over the battlements and extended one foreleg, knocking free several dozen men who were attempting to overturn the Varden's ladders. Some fell where they stood, others over the sides and to the earth two stories below. Many loosed arrows in her direction, where they were turned aside by Eragon's wards; they fed partially on his own power, partially on hers, and partially on that of Blödhgarm and the other elven warriors on the ground. As per their discussion, they had forged their way to the front of the Varden's initial wave so that when Rider and dragon arrived the elves would be best placed to feed the two of them additional energy for spells.

Before the gates were breached, Eragon bade Saphira send a gout of flame spreading through the streets, any and all that were free of ordinary townspeople; hundreds of men were incinerated, few of whom survived. They made quick work of ballistae and other war engines, reducing the Empire's ability to stand their ground. Much in their favor, there seemed to be a shortage of magicians on Galbatorix's salary in Belatona; Du Vrangr Gata would soon be given free reign once they realized this. Eragon sent a message bearing this news to Trianna, who was near the front lines. Her glee was ill-concealed.

Then the tide suddenly turned against them. Saphira was clawing her way up the side of the small city's fortress and tugging archers and their few middling sorcerers free with her claws and tail when outcries and waves of agony washed over Eragon; something was amiss throughout the ranks of the Varden. Leaving their current efforts, they returned to where the bulk of the skirmish was being fought.

There, scorching the earth, were their opposite numbers. Murtagh and Thorn.

_Barzûl knular! _Eragon swore to Saphira. _I had prayed earnestly we'd be spared a confrontation __such as this._

_An unanswered prayer, then. Galbatorix grows weary of his enemies spreading over his empire like an obstinate lichen. We shall again be forced to fight those of stunted mind and chained heart._

_It is our wyrda._

"Eragon!" the demented cry rang out. "Here we are again, my brother, poised on conflicting sides! How tragic!"

"You're no brother of mine!" he growled as he closed his mind to any and all connections – including Saphira's. He had not perfected his ability to maintain contact with her via their link without allowing others to sneak in around the sides, and therefore it was far too dangerous to do anything else. "You are an anathema!"

"I thought your goal was to save me," Murtagh said, his grin bloodthirsty, his eyes mad and flashing. "Have you given it up as a lost cause?"

"Never, old friend. But neither can I allow you to harm those I name brethren-in-arms."

"_I _am your brother! We have both wielded the same blade – that of our father!" To illustrate, he raised Zar'roc to the sky, its ruddy sheen reflecting the pale light of sunrise. "Deny that our bond is deeper than yours to those weaklings and cowards crawling through the mud below if you will, but you beguile neither of us!"

Eragon allowed himself a sinister grin. "We share _not_ a father! Only a mother!"

There hung silence for a moment as both dragons circled one another in the air, fire chasing ice as ice chased fire. "What drivel is this?"

"Today, you witness for the first time my true name – Eragon Bromsson!"

"_YOU LIE!"_

"Our mother may have been the Black Hand," Eragon went on, not only glad to clear himself of the geas of Morzan's ancestry but also suspecting that the psychological effect of losing the thing that most linked them together would shake Murtagh's confidence. Any foothold in this situation would be worth its weight in gold. "She may have sired both of us. But Morzan allowed her heart to slip through his calloused fingers! She became drawn to another, and bore _his_ child – and that child challenges her other!"

"And you claim this other was _Brom?"_ Murtagh called out with no small dose of incredulity. "The old fossil who couldn't even save himself from the Ra'zac? Preposterous! I ask for silver-plated truth and you present to me rusted tin!"

"Believe as you will," Eragon bit out. "But I shall defeat you this day,_ half-_brother!" Then he drew Brisingr, and held it proudly aloft... and his adversary's eyes grew wide, mouth hanging as if its hinge were broken.

"No... you have a Rider's blade, a true... where in Alagaësia did you find-"

"I forged it with my own hands!" he crowed. Technically it was fact, even if his hands were being guided by another, more capable smithy at the time. "A sword free of previous owner for a rider free of oppression! And with it, I will liberate the rest of this continent as well!"

Murtagh's eyes flashed – was that envy lurking in there? Perhaps it was. "See to your high-minded crusade, then – if you can!"

Steel met steel as the two dragons grappled beneath, clawing and biting and bludgeoning each other with tails. Eragon knew with depressing certainty how equal they were in swordsmanship, but he had gained a slight advantage. When last they clashed, he had been wielding a common falchion from among the Varden's armaments. Now he had acquired a new Rider's sword, tailored to his specific needs and fighting style. Murtagh found himself defending more often than attacking, and that consternated him.

So he relied on his magics. Wave after wave of spells and incantations pounded upon Eragon and Saphira, most of which were harmlessly deflected by wards, though even that was troubling for it meant their magical reserves began to drain rapidly. Eragon flung a number of his own at the power-hungry Rider, few of which made any impact other than to equally deplete Murtagh's resources. He felt the power go out of Blödhgarm's troupe and from Arya, who he knew was also feeding him what power she could spare, but it was enough; the battle would have to stretch on far longer before any of the elves were left drained. A possibility that was all too probable.

Eragon got in a lucky shot. While both of them were trading blows of gramarye, he turned aside Murtagh's sword for the instant needed to land a glancing strike to his arm, a tiny cut through armor and fabric into flesh that nearly reached bone. The dripping gash would eventually weaken him if not seen to. It would be simplicity itself to heal if he had a spare moment, but Eragon did not intend to allow that; he would keep his half-brother busy defending himself both physically and mentally.

"Have you found a way to change my true name yet?"

Eragon knew he did not actually care. It was a tactic to divert his attention from their trading of blows. "I cannot do it in your stead. It is a path meant for one."

"It is a path that does not exist, then!"

Part of him knew he wanted to stop and lament the sad arrangement of events that led to his being ensnared by Galbatorix's iron will. It was something that would have to be done when he was not otherwise occupied.

Inspired, Eragon devised a spell that unraveled the fabric and welding that held Murtagh's armor together. Being that it could hardly be called offensive magic, it slipped past his wards and did what it was intended. Much the worse for the Son Of Morzan, he was sufficiently distracted by part of his clothing falling away that he flinched, his concentration lapsing.

Eragon struck again... and this was no glancing strike.

Murtagh cried out with anguish as two of his fingers tumbled to the ground far below. As if on cue, Thorn lashed out at Saphira and clawed a hole in one of her wings – just enough of a distraction to allow them to retreat. As Murtagh glared at his own hand, Eragon hastily patched that rip and two others like it, ignoring the smallish cuts he'd gained on his own arms and legs. They were cosmetic and not life-threatening.

He watched as Murtagh summoned his flesh from the ground below, watched as he began attempting to reattach it – using not his own power, but one of the strange artifacts he had been given by Galbatorix that could contain a fully-cast spell for later use. And Eragon lunged free of Saphira and tackled Murtagh at the exact moment the spell took root, knowing that was when his concentration would be most focused on the procedure.

"_GAH!"_

Eragon winced when he felt the tip of Zar'roc part the very end of his ear, but he knew he'd done far more critical damage. Brisingr showed on the other side of Murtagh's hip, its blue combining with fluids to form a ghastly maroon tint.

"You'll regret that," Murtagh rumbled, teeth clenched against the pain. "You'll pay this debt in full, here and now!"

Zar'roc flashed backward, and Brisingr was still lodged tightly. He would not be able to jerk it free in time to defend himself.

That was the moment Saphira chose to batter Thorn mercilessly from behind, scraping away scales and leaving long bloody stripes across his back. Zar'roc missed his throat and only nicked him on the cheek, and Eragon pressed his boot into Murtagh's chest and flipped away and into the air, where he began to drop.

Of course, Saphira was under him within a few seconds. In that time, Murtagh frantically mended the hole pouring forth crimson, but there was no time to do it with much grace or attention to detail. Thorn's injuries would also need to wait.

"Give up," Eragon bade him as both Riders began to circle. "Can't you see that you cannot win this time? I will be the victor, and you will be dead – so at least lay down your arms and surrender until we have beaten your master! Then you shall be free of his atrocious bindings!"

"Do you really think he hasn't considered that?" Murtagh screamed. "My ironclad orders are to fight you until you die, or I die, or I am forced to retreat. There is no room for pretty words or clever insurrection!"

"Then I shall have to ensure you will not return to cast a shadow over us again!"

The dragons clashed anew. Driven mad by the pain in his wounds and his inability to choose his own fate, Murtagh's attacks grew frantic and without rhyme or reason. Eragon was able to open vents of blood below his knee and on his shoulder. This was before the worst happened.

Eragon cursed in three languages as he helplessly watched Brisingr tumble to earth.

"_HA!_" Murtagh crowed, his conquest ensured. "All the fancy swords in the world cannot make you the more accomplished fencer! I have robbed you of your livelihood, _Shadeslayer-" _this he spoke as if a lewd joke he'd heard from small children "-and now your life shall follow it, unless you swear allegiance to Galbatorix here and now!"

"I would sooner ingest pig vomit!"

"That can be arranged!"

What else could he do? Eragon had lost, staggeringly, unequivocally lost. Now all he could hope to do was figure out a way to bring down Murtagh with him.

Eragon sent every killing-word he knew in the ancient language at him; none landed. He then tried a few new ones, far-fetched ideas that he formed, cast and wailed at their ineffectiveness between beats of his thundering pulse. Even one he had been sure would work, that was meant to literally boil the blood, failed.

"Farewell, my half-brother." Eragon heard the note of regret hiding behind the sheen of mockery. Neither of them wanted to kill the other, but fate truly was a cruel mistress.

Zar'roc raised, Saphira and Thorn ravaged one another, Eragon readied a futile attempt to catch or swat aside the blade with his bare hands...

And found himself stunned to see something streaking past, an object that deflected Zar'roc and thereby postponed his death knell.

"What in- _who goes here?"_

"I GO!"

Both half-brothers gaped at the lithe form hovering a mere two yards away, holding a blade in either hand – one of which was Brisingr. The other gleamed violet.

"_Elva!"_

"What in blazes is an Elva?" Murtagh demanded, looking from Eragon to his former apprentice, Rider's blade still at the ready. "What is this moth-eaten beggar girl doing here? Answer!"

"I can speak for _myself!"_

Though Murtagh was the more experienced swordsman, his shock was so complete that he could do little more than fend off her dual-bladed attack, gaping openly at this new threat.

"You're _flying!" _Eragon couldn't help but observe.

"I am!" A few strokes later, she reversed to his side, landing on Saphira's shoulder and returning Brisingr to him in the same motion. "Thought you might have missed this."

"More than you can know! What are you doing here?"

Her eyes, brighter than he'd ever seen them flare, held a smile that was at once delighted, resigned, and energized. "Darning the tapestry of fate. What else?"

"This is ludicrous!" Murtagh fumed. "I demand to know who this whelp is and why she inserts herself so unwelcomely into this Rider's duel!"

Elva took a step forward, knuckles whitening on Skölir's grip. "Quickknife."

"Pardon?"

"Argetbrun, the Cursed-By-Blessing!" she bellowed as she soared the short distance to Thorn's back and stabbed at him. And thereafter, Eragon witnessed his pupil's finest hour.

Moving faster than he'd ever seen any non-elf manage, she feinted and dodged and parried, landing a dozen scratches on the top layer of Murtagh's skin without gaining so much as a bruise on her own. Twice he landed a blow against her, but her wards and sheer speed turned it aside, a dull scraping sound filling the air as it moved along her armor. Grinning wickedly, she sent a swipe behind her that removed the tips of several of Thorn's head-spikes, causing the dragon to roar with outrage.

"From where do you draw this unrelenting power?" Murtagh begged to know weakly as Zar'roc blazed a fiery path through the air around him.

"The same origin as you!"

With an off-hand gesture, she tugged at the knot holding her bandana in place and allowed it to drift free. Almost as an afterthought, Eragon dipped to the side and caught it.

"It can't be," Murtagh said, head shaking without him knowing he shook it. "But... but you have no dragon, you had no _eggs! _What is this sacrilege?"

"It is my _wyrd_, traitor! It is the end of an Empire and the beginning of a new age!"

Three deflected strokes later, she surged under his guard and punctured his side. He reeled back, as if to strike at her with an open palm – and this proved to be a grave error.

Murtagh's entire arm parted with the rest of him. For a brief moment, no one spoke, and Murtagh's eyes filled with tears of pain and disbelief. Then he growled out a hasty spell that ripped open the flap of one of his saddlebags, and the arm changed its course to fall inside.

"I'll see to that later," he said murderously, voice stripped and raw. "Now... I must remove this obstacle and return to my purpose for being present at this siege!"

"Bah! Do so if you think you've the _stenrya!"_

By this point, Murtagh had passed beyond ire and into the role of the rabid beast. Even one-handed, Zar'roc carved the wind to ribbons, and Elva beat aside all with her own Rider's blade, but she had few openings to counterattack against such reckless abandon.

Murtagh reached out with magic, but she rebuffed his own spell and set his head alight almost without stopping to think. Laughing, she made to plant her dagger into his collarbone... and succeeded.

Then Zar'roc found its way into her gut.

The air seemed to hang still and silent for a long moment as blood welled around both wounds. Eragon felt a fragment of his own soul fracture, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Elva completed her move, drew back with blade in hand, and looked down at the red steel protruding from her abdomen. One of her fingers touched the juncture where metal and flesh blended into a singular crimson mess. Her mouth popped open and a unitary word gurgled forth.

"_Werg."_

It seemed her finest hour would also be her _final_.

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: Thanks for all the reviews, everybody... and I'm really, really sorry about the cliffhanger.<p> 


	11. Importunity

_Chapter Eleven – Importunity_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

As Eragon looked on, Murtagh sagged downward, having suffered far too much loss of his lifeblood to stay standing. Zar'roc slipped backward an inch. Nodding, Elva began to back up, allowing it to slide past ribs and viscera and fall from its temporary sheath.

"_ELVA!"_

Calmly, as if they had merely been sparring, Elva turned, wiping Skölir clean on her breeches with loving, deliberate action. She sheathed it. She swayed dangerously.

_Great winged gods,_ Saphira said, trembling from snout to tail.

"Elva, you... you just hold on, I'll-" But Eragon found himself out of words. He had no idea what on earth he might do in this predicament, if anything. That was most certainly a mortal wound. It was beyond what may or may not be healed.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. She smiled – smiled for him, one saturated with triumph and vindication. Then she toppled downward, falling end over end.

_BLÖDHGARM!_ he thundered over his mental link with the elf.

_She will be tended, _he answered immediately. It was sure that every detail of this horrific scene had been wrapped up in Eragon's emotionally-charged message.

"I d-don't..." Murtagh paused to hack up a lungful of blood, spraying it all over Thorn's back; it was barely noticeable against the red scales. "This is more th-than... what if I ca- I can't-"

"No more," Eragon rasped, vibrating where he sat. Gritting his teeth, he tied Elva's bandana round his own head, then picked up his sword from where it lay across his lap. _"No more!"_

Saphira obediently carried him onward, her own desire to see justice served as great as his. Without preamble, Eragon thrust his sword as deeply into Thorn's hide as he could manage.

"_BRISINGR!"_

It burst into flame. The smell of charring meat filled the air, and Thorn loosed a pained roar that rocked the hills for miles in every direction of the compass.

And still Eragon fed it, stoked it, made it grow. His energy began to wane, but he felt another surge join him, one that was twofold; firstly came Arya, worried over his well-being if his reserves should fail him. Then another came, one he had not expected.

It was Glaedr. The mostly-dormant Eldunarí tucked safely away in Saphira's saddlebag had awoken when he sensed Eragon's undiluted fury, and upon learning of the reasoning behind it he had no misgivings about bringing Murtagh and Thorn to their ends. Turnabout was fair play, after all. Both Oromis and his golden dragon had also become rather fond of the tot during her tenure in Ellesméra, blossoming under their watchful eyes. Neither of them would allow Elva's murderer to go unpunished.

"_Enough of this!"_

The words came from Murtagh's lips, but they did not belong to him. Eragon recognized it as Galbatorix's voice from the vision he'd seen of Osthato Chetowä's demise. The villain had commandeered his subordinate once more.

A darkness seemed to shroud the land as energy gathered before them. Murtagh's sword was raised upward, his eyes cold and empty. Then an overwhelming force deluged onto Eragon's body, driving he and Saphira down, down, and further down.

He watched above him as the two battered partners began winging their way north and east, a curl of greasy smoke marking their erratic trail. Toward Urû'baen, where they would be made whole again. For all his and Elva's efforts, Murtagh and Thorn had survived and may yet live to fight another day.

But Elva would not be so fortunate. She did not have some monstrous dictator with ungodly powers at his disposal. She had only he and a handful of elves. Regardless, even the self-declared Emperor himself could likely do nothing for her with such an open, sucking wound marring her body.

Elva was beyond saving.

They landed, and as Saphira began clawing at the enemy Eragon picked his way through bodies, he asked people, he felt out with his mind... he was stumbling past fights, half-consciously cutting down Imperial soldiers as he went, wanting to take out his grief on anyone bearing the emblem of his hated enemy. Then he spotted the ring of guard-elves, and upon the ground between them was Elva.

"She is not well, Shadeslayer," Blödhgarm whispered to him. "Your time grows short; I would speak with her now if you value the opportunity."

Eragon unceremoniously shoved an elf out of the way; which, he knew not. She was a spectacular bloody wreck. Unable to seal it off in time, he turned his head and was violently sick, spitting and turning back to kneel at her side as quickly as he might. How could this have happened to her? Did it _have_ to be her? One hand supported her head, cradling it as he looked into her hollow, unfocused eyes. Simultaneously, he was probing her body for its condition, sending wave after wave of healing spell into the opening...

"Stop."

"There must be something! I'll not give up! I will search until-"

"I die," she finished for him in a resigned tone. "It was my time; I knew it all along."

Eragon gaped. "You... foresaw. You knew Murtagh would stab you if you came to help me, and still you- and then- by Gûntera, why did you come?

"Because it meant keeping you alive. Trading... my health and welfare for yours. A worthy exchange." Thick droplets of blood sprayed across his face when she coughed, and he made no move to wipe them away. "I have accomplished my mission. Now... now it is all up to you."

"Elva!"

"Goodbye, my beloved master. _Atra esterní ono... thel... duin."_

Her head lolled. He could feel she was slipping into unconsciousness. This would be followed by a coma, which would be followed by the great unknown.

Eragon ground his fist into the earth, feeling his raised callouses gouge out small ruts. There was something that could be done. No one was trying hard enough. Didn't they see how unfair this was? How completely backward and heinous and evil? None of them cared a whit!

A sorrow descended on his heart as he felt hers slipping from him. In a few more breaths, she would be beyond him for eternity.

Flinging his mind outward, he sought the lingering residuals of power that clung to the bodies strewn across Belatona and he channeled his stolen magic into Elva. Parts of her body knitted back together, but there was so much sensitive tissue that had been damaged. So he took more. Every soldier his mind came to that lay dead or dying gave up their power to him. Then he began draining his belt of diamonds, and the jewel in Brisingr's pommel. Then, hating himself for even thinking about it much less the act, he weakened every single soldier who belonged to the Empire. Not only did he use this energy for Elva, but the stalemate quickly ended and the Varden at last began to beat back the enemy forces. A twofold benefit... and still not enough.

"Stop this," Blödhgarm told him warningly. "Her body is whole, there is no more to heal. It is simply too late."

"Angvard take that," he spat. "I will try until nothing more can be tried!"

There was a tiny spark of life left in her; he saw it, clear as he saw her fair face below him, paling yet more with each second. On the other hand, the blue-furred warrior did not lie; Elva's wounds had been closed, her internal organs sorted into their proper forms and mended. So what more could he do?

In desperation, he devised a few spells in his head and began muttering the first one immediately. The last word left his mouth, and he saw Elva's body swell slightly; he had replenished her blood by causing it to reproduce itself more effectively than it normally would. Next came her heart, which he manipulated until it pumped on its own. Lastly, using currents of wind, he inflated, deflated, and re-inflated her lungs. He kept at the last two for several minutes.

There was a marked change. Her body began to function again, albeit at a reduced state. But her mind would not come back to him. She continued to fade.

One of the other guard-elves spoke; perhaps the one named Inra. _"Letta._ You play a dark game, Shur'tugal."

"I play to win back a dear friend. I will cast my lots until I have nothing left to gamble."

"Then you go against the natural order of things, against _wyrda_ _un_ _andlat_. What I watch... it is _äfnuanen."_

"I know it is ugly!" he shouted into her surprised face, hot tears cascading down his own. "And I would do it a thousand times over!"

She tensed and made to reply, but Blödhgarm placed a hand on her shoulder and she silenced. The de facto leader of their band of elves was equally disgusted by his actions, but he at least could understand the wherefores.

Eragon looked down sharply when he sensed the gilded walls surrounding Elva's mind fall away; her will was too far gone to sustain its defenses. That may be the solution; he had to hope it was. Without hesitation, he plunged.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

All around him lay Elva's warped memories, paintings of stark misery and loss. But they all had faded to gray. They and their once-proud iron defenses would begin to crumble soon. Gathering every ounce of power he had within his mental self, he sent a wave of consciousness outward, battering all.

Eragon found a door.

As every obstruction had been stripped away from Elva's mind, the presence of a door was something out of place. Immediately and without question, he knew that was where he must be. He examined everything as he rushed on but found nothing of her spirit, only old memories and feelings, some of which he was sickened to find were of himself. That would be all that remained of her if he could not alter this course of events.

He reached the door and looked through it into a gaping void, mile upon mile of black. What was out there? There was no time to wonder. He pushed through and found himself floating, almost as if to fall but drifting on murky currents.

There was Elva. Little was left; she was insubstantial like an apparition. He called out to her but she did not reply – not until he willed himself to her side and grasped her ghostly arm with his own equally-ghostly hand.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was lilting and higher than usual.

"Saving you."

"You cannot save me. I go now... to the beyond."

"No. You must come back with me instead."

"Impossible."

Eragon gathered himself; it was difficult to maintain his thought pattens in this abyss. "Then I shall follow you."

"_NO!"_ she said, and her gaze finally settled on him, as if his offer had tempered her into a more solid state of mind than before. "Eragon, don't say that, not even in jest!"

"I will go where you go," he repeated.

"Nay, Eragon, you cannot follow. There is a world that still needs a Rider. I was a mere tool that did its part, and now yours is to release me and finish what we have started."

She began to drift away. He spun her about and clutched her upper arms. "I have healed your body; it is ready to accept your mind again. All you need do is come back with me!"

Her eyes wandered to and fro, as if she were fainting. Then she whispered, "The hour runs short. Return from whence you came before it has fled entirely."

This turned out to be true; a quick glance proved the door was drifting to a close. Instinctively he knew once it had, nothing could reopen it. "Then that is regrettable."

"You fool," she said with a bleak, sad kind of anger. "You ungrateful bastard. I gave of myself for you, and now I hear you wish to throw my sacrifice away?"

"My fate is your fate, Elva. Whatever world I am in will be the same as yours. I leave it up to you to decide which."

Only then did any strong reaction enter her features, though it was still blanketed by a passiveness that came from her waning solidity. "Why, though? I am not so vital; just a girl. We are family, but families are parted by all manner of tragedy. It is the natural order of things."

"It is – and the day will come when one of us shall be torn from the other by circumstances beyond our ability to prevent. But until then... as long as I might do something, I must!"

"_Barzûl! _ I am not important enough to stake your own life on the outcome!" she barked, checking the door once more. "Can't you see I want you to leave? Back there is where you belong. Where I go now is where I belong."

"No, it isn't! It's..." He rushed ahead, feeling his own mind begin to dissipate as the void took its toll on him. "You told me once that your heart eternally belonged with mine. I only ask now that you uphold that statement as truth. Please, _please_..."

At last, she seemed to realize how he yearned for her to accept, how determined he was to bring her back, and her hand touched his cheek as she quavered, "But I am... Eragon, are you sure you need me this severely?"

"_Oeí, Skilfz Delva." Yes, my golden one._

Pearly white wisps of transparency suddenly pulsed with an inner lavender cast, and Elva became nearly whole in that instant. The next, she threw her arms around him and dove, knocking both of them through the door, bashing against its frame. It would have closed on them had her response been any slower.

For a long while they lay on the spongy floor of her inner being, huddled together, recovering from the drain that being so immersed in the true _helgrind_ put on a person. Slowly, he became aware that their avatars were not clothed; it was only their most essential forms that could be generated from what energy was left to them. Such was their proximity to the afterlife.

"You should not be touching me like this," she hissed, voice full of tears that could not come before because her feeble spectral form was unable to create them. "It is..."

"It is beautiful," he told her firmly. "Because we may still touch. Because you're here."

For a span, they forgot their other worries and held each other, relieved beyond measure. Elva passed her hands along his back and he along hers, threading into her hair, thinking on how close he had come to being deprived from that and rejoicing in his right to do it now and in future. Outside, in the realm of the physical, he had worried over their ages, her origins, his guilt, their destinies... so many reservations that now seemed petty and digressive. But here? The white-hot feeling of unity from when he last joined their silver marks together returned with a crippling magnitude, and neither of them pulled away from fear. So much peace could be found inside. It was not just an amount of contentment – it _was_ contentment.

_She _was.

"I awaken soon," she promised him quietly. "You will... need to lend me a bit more energy to bring me to my senses, I'm afraid. Which I hate to request, as you've given so much..."

"Anything at all."

"Aren't you terrified you made the wrong decision? I am _seithr-burthro, _a child of magic and a pain in your hindquarters."

"A pain I bear with a smile." He pulled back and placed his lips against her silver mark, the lightest touch while he spoke. "You can't run off and leave Skölir ownerless. And what will Angela and Solembum do without some filthy little urchin to try molding with moderate success?"

"There is that," she laughed. Then she raised her enveloping violet eyes to stare into his, imploring. "Feeling you so near... every part of me is... it is... oh, can you permit me, if only once and outside of the mortal plane?"

"A 'once' that has happened so many times that I've lost count," he told her, tones ridiculing even while his stomach fluttered. "But... thank you for asking."

"Gallantry is an admirable trait. It also impedes."

Unlike every other time Elva had forced herself on him, perpetrating advances that he would not have asked for, this time he found it not altogether displeasing. Which is to say they coalesced beyond themselves and became a shimmering entity of what the dwarves call _"dorzâda" –_ a deep, thriving affection.

"You... bring heat to my face," Eragon could only think to say as they pulled apart.

"You bring heat to more than that," Elva snickered. "But if you are to prevent the door from opening again, you must now go and divert some energy to me. Otherwise, I'm sure you'll just have to repeat the entire burdensome process anew, wasting yet more of both magic and the Varden's precious time. Let us conserve our resources, shall we?"

Together they stood, robes of light draping over their bare forms as they began to recover from their trial. He walked beside her to the center of the town that made up her life, and saw the memories and feelings begin to regain their color, slowly but surely.

"Some of my mind began to atrophy," she said in a hushed voice, staring down at her bare feet gliding along the cobblestone pathway. "I feel it... but it is easily reparable. My powers are great enough that I can do it; if you had attempted this on someone less gifted, they may have suffered much more lasting damage."

"I should not have attempted it on you, either," he admitted softly. "Even so... it is difficult to entertain regrets."

"It is." She squeezed his hand in her own, then released it. "Away with you. I'll begin work on my mind, and you find Trianna or another well-suited to lend me their gramarye so I can be roused. Then we shall speak of many things."

"You do belong with me," he reassured her once more. "Whatever that means or implications it holds, I know it beyond doubt. I'm not ready to relinquish you just yet."

"Enough!" she laughed, cheeks bunching from the size of her grin. "You've convinced me! Hark, is that an echo? We have already left the shapeless void and returned. Why do you still persist?"

"Because I won't leave until I know you comprehend it. Until you promise you won't go back to the door the very moment I'm gone."

Elva nodded soberly, grin but a haunting memory now. _"Eka weohnata néiat eitha pömnuria ebrithil thornessa dag."_ Thus, she swore in the ancient language, and he was satisfied.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

When Eragon's eyes opened, the first thing he noticed was Arya's face two inches away.

The next thing was her head snapping backward, startled. After heaving a weighty sigh of utter relief, she smiled a quirky smile at him and offered her hand, which he took. "Welcome back, Argetlam."

"Many thanks," he grunted as he sat up. "Elva, what has-"

"She is fine," she assured him, expression darkening. "Though from what Blödhgarm has told me, that should not be the case."

"I could not let her die."

"It would have been proper and without reproach. But instead, you stole energy from _living beings. _It curdles my blood to think of what havoc you might have wrought."

"I stole the barest amount from our enemies," he insisted. "It minimized the Varden's losses, and I did so without actually killing them."

"And that justifies it?" she shouted. When Eragon looked down and away, she grabbed his shoulder, staring evenly at him. "Elva is a great warrior, and a child who shows immense aptitude for all things. But she is not to be kept alive at the expense of the rest of Alagaësia."

"Please, Arya... I know. I did what I could, and tried to go about it by doing the least harm to anyone." His lip trembled. "She knew beforehand that she would die if she protected me, and she came anyway. How could I not reciprocate?"

After a few tense seconds, Arya nodded, allowing the tightness to leave her shoulders. "Very well. It is apparent you did only what you thought the just path, and truly you did not kill others to bolster her life force. If you had... I would not have permitted you to awaken. We do not-"

"You're right," he agreed hastily, "I know, we do not need another Galbatorix. Forgive me for overriding your words, but it chills me to hear us compared."

"Rightly so, Eragon." Her hand went to his temple, and his breath caught. "But in spite of my disapproval of your methods... I am heartened that the two of you survived."

"And I you," he told her, and she withdrew, now uncomfortable with their closeness. It no longer held the pang of loss it once did, and he wondered at that for a moment before clearing his throat. "Are the others allright?"

"No. If you mean your family and closer friends, then yes. We suffered losses, but they were thankfully at a minimum. Except..." Catching the look of mounting dread in his eye, she hurried ahead rather than draw it out. "The blacksmith from Carvahall, Horst. One of his sons has lost a leg. Baldor is his name, if I am not mistaken."

"Blast," Eragon hissed violently. Then he said, "It is... an acceptable loss, I suppose. Given the alternative." He took a breath, then for the first time noticed his surroundings; it was his tent. "Sorry to ask this so baldly, but... may I see Elva? Not that I mistrust our healers, but-"

"There's no need," she said with a laugh – which shocked him. He could count the number of times Arya had laughed in his presence on one hand. "Behold, she comes."

Eragon found himself puzzled as he watched the obviously-unconscious form of Elva pulling herself hand-over-hand toward him through the tent-flap, a dismayed Greta and grumbling Angela trailing along behind, the latter holding a jar of herb paste. Elva's eyes were closed and her mouth drooling, and on she crawled, undaunted.

"What... is..."

"Perhaps you can shed some light on this," Arya began, suppressing another titter. "We have tried over and over again to sequester her in a neighboring tent, and each time this odd scene repeats. Comical, if unsettling."

"Ah." Eragon flashed her an apologetic smile. "Before I left her mind, I forced her to swear in the ancient language that she would not welcome death once alone. I believe her exact words were..."

Once he had repeated them, Arya nodded, still staving off laughter. "So she promised not to leave you 'this day'. Which means that until twilight, if not dawn, it will be hopeless to attempt keeping her from your side for more than a few minutes. No sense in separating you again."

He reached down and brushed a strand of hair from her dirt-caked face, and she instantly stilled, a vague smile tugging the corner of her lips upward. Eragon's voice was joyful as he said, "Aye. No sense in that."

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: Dear GOD, MagmaFyre... I almost PM'd you this chapter early just to make sure you didn't go into cardiac arrest! Here's hoping you survived until now, lol... but on the other hand I'm glad you're digging it so much. And to both you and Oblit, I hope my update was soon enough! Sentinel: there are a few more chapters left, but this time there will definitely be no sequel so I really hope you enjoy the rest of this ride! Maybe that's not the answer you want to hear, but if I kept writing even after I ran out of good ideas, it would turn into Dragonball Z!<p> 


	12. Avowal

_Chapter Twelve – Avowal_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Twice during Eragon's vigil over Elva's slumbering form, Angela entered and checked on the both of them, and the second time she left and returned with Trianna, who grudgingly rerouted some of her own energy into the witch-child's body. An hour slipped past. He had put himself into his state of dreamlike awareness when she stirred.

"Hello, my guardian."

"Eragon," she mumbled, rubbing at one eye with her fist. Then a broad smile broke out across her face and she sat up. "I... is this the beyond? Are we seated at Morgothal's table?"

"I'm afraid not," Eragon chuckled. "Morgothal will have to wait until we pass on."

Somehow, her smile grew yet wider. "Then you _did _come for me. I... had assumed it a fever dream in my last moments upon this mortal coil. You risked... you put yourself in-"

"Hush now. You've been through much and are not at full strength. Rest."

"I shall if you rest with me." When Eragon let out a blast of apprehensive laughter, she drew in a sharp breath and looked away. "Oh... wait, that was presumptuous of me. All that you said inside my mind, it was not-"

"Those were my honest feelings."

Elva shivered, drawing her knees up to her chin. "Bah. I... appreciate your concern, but I shan't take my own life if you reveal it to be honeyed words intended to bring me back."

"All I said was fact, Shiningbrow. Every last sentence. Though if I could have thought of lies that could have saved you, I would have used them without pause. I am glad, however, that it was unnecessary; my soul sought yours out and whisked it into the land of the living."

"Say not these things!" Elva was breathing hard, and he began to worry that she would lapse into a comatose state again. "M-my heart cannot... your respect and companionship are too dear to me to risk on believing we could ever have what I desire. So desist in torturing me."

"You do not believe?"

"It is unparalleled folly."

He watched her for a time, as she stared at the lumps her legs made beneath her blanket, willing him to stop pretending and reassure her that they could return to the way they had been. A wise and mature tact, one he considered thoroughly before gripping his own knees tightly, trying to still the hammering in his chest. He was about to upend everything.

"_Argetbrun... Vel eïnradhin iet fricai un Shur'tugal, ilian iet ono eru. Iet delois. Sitja medh eka." Silverbrow, upon my word as Rider and friend, you are my happiness. My purple flower. Stay with me. _Finished, he waited.

And he waited.

Thumbs graced the skin under his eyes, pulled it downward as if to gaze more deeply inside, to gauge his honesty. When he dared look up at her, he saw more wetness on her cheeks than ever he had before, and he'd seen her cry more than any other being in his years. Her relationship to him made it so.

"I hate you for that."

"Eh?"

"For using the ancient language against me _again._ Cease that! I wish we'd never learned the blasted tongue!"

Eragon laughed, but it stuck in his throat when she grasped his ears and pulled him bodily atop her, running fingers over the nape of his neck and into his hair as she kissed him so passionately that he felt sure a steam would rise. Both of them paused, then began freshly and with greater care, savoring the sensation, exploring and delighting and never having been so alarmed over anything in their lives. All the while, the only thought Eragon could muster was that she was incredibly, remarkably soft. And warm; also that.

"O glittering Sindriznarrvel, it _is_ real, I do not dream it!" she sobbed into his shoulder when she was too overcome. "The scales have fallen away from your eyes and you have perceived me, after all this time! I was beginning to think myself invisible!"

"Elva, I cannot tell you how sorry I am," he gasped out, embracing her so tightly that it would have fractured her back had she not been dragon-marked. "For overlooking the signs, for convincing myself that I was too old or you too young, or any of that ignorance! Your ardor has been so plain and above question from the beginning, but I dismissed you out of hand, like a giant-"

"Yes, yes, all well and good, but it's moot now!" she giggled damply. "My Eragon, my precious, addle-brained farm-boy, you've awoken, it's so... in an elf's age, I never foresaw _this!"_

They drew back to stare at each other, and it was as if for the first time. Eragon brushed tears from her cheek with his hand, and when Elva's eyes half-closed and her lip quivered, he thrilled in it instead of being frightened. Violet eyes were not inhuman, but merely unusual. No, not unusual; unique. She was unique. She was dazzling and without peer.

"So you know," she whispered, coming over shy now, "you may repeal this in the morning if you must. I'll not bind you. Emotions are running high this day of slaughter, so I'll fully understand if you do not feel the same come dawn. And... even then, it will be such a gift that I shall never forget it, nor want for anything more! You've fulfilled a broken doll's greatest fantasy."

Eragon poked her in the stomach, and she gasped at the intimate gesture. "Did I not swear in the ancient language? Does that not prevent me from lying? Honestly..."

"You wear my headband," she noticed, reaching up toward it. "I... had thought it gone, buried in the aftermath. How in the name of..?"

"I caught it when you untied it to goad my half-brother. Much the same as you caught Brisingr and brought it up to me. You _flew!"_

"I did at that," she said, moving her hand from the bandana to his hair, to the scar on his ear that would likely have vanished after a proper healing had he not been so focused on healing her instead. "It's not so difficult. Propelling myself to such a height, however, took a good drop of energy, but... love lends you wings."

"Then this day, I am a dragon." Grinning, he threw open his mind and cried, _Saphira!_

_Yes, little keening one?_ she answered with no small amount of mirth.

_Elva lives!_

_Quite, _she laughed, the deep rumble of it penetrating the tent. _And you have finally ceased gamboling around her like a besotted dog, I take it?_

_I haven't the slightest inkling of your meaning._

_Well, I suppose you could have picked a less worthy mate. I am gladdened for you, Eragon. May you both bear many hatchlings._

Both Eragon and Elva sucked in a breath at that thought. Bear many _what? _But the next moment they had laughed, and continued laughing for some time before Eragon tackled her to the floor and engaged her again, Saphira's own laugh still moving the earth beneath them as she flew off to hunt and afford them some privacy.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

The point came when they were too embarrassed to progress any further. Growing so close to his former pupil still taxed Eragon to a lesser degree, and for her part, Elva had been anticipating this for so long that finding it close at hand created a nervousness the likes of which she had never known. Being near one another was more than enough for the moment.

After procuring a large quantity of food, which Elva devoured with relish, Eragon told her he would go and see Nasuada to determine their best course of action. Saphira responded to his call and informed him that she would meet them there. He had only gone several yards from the tent when he heard light footfalls behind.

"I'll be back before you can miss me," he told her, finding the situation humorous.

"I know," she whispered from his shoulder. "I just... I tried to remain, but felt your loss so powerfully that I was compelled to accompany you."

"Yes, that will be the gramarye at work."

"Eh?" Once he had explained the inadvertent side effect of her oath to him, she let out a chuckle. "Ah. So that's what it is. Well, I can't say as I mind."

"Nor can I. Though you may find yourself caring a hair more when next I relieve myself... or _you _relieve yourself."

He turned in time to catch sight of her coughing, trying to use it as an excuse for the scarlet flooding through her cheeks. It was kind of him not to find humor in her discomfort.

They soon reached the regal structure and paused while they were heralded, then entered to find Nasuada in animated conversation with King Orrin and Jörmundur. Arya stood off to one side, and flashed him a bemused smile when she saw Elva keeping mere inches from him. He scowled, which only fed into her bemusement.

"Ah, there you are," Nasuada sighed. "We were beginning to wonder if you might crouch at the Far-Seer's bedside until the end of the war."

"Not needed, as it turns out. What orders, My Lady?"

"None at present. Though it might do for you to make a speech to the residents of Belatona; they chomp at the bit to meet the famed Rider who has slain _two _Shades."

"Do they?"

Orrin nodded with a small smile. "Unlike Feinster, they seem to hold no love for their iron-fisted king. Alas, also unlike Feinster, their governor put up quite a fight in being deposed, loyal through and through to the Empire. Out from under his thumb, the Belatonans are openly pleased to be in the company of Surdans."

"Well," Eragon said, shifting awkwardly, "I suppose I should, then. Though I'd prefer to wait until later so I can address them without having to explain, ah... my company."

Nasuada and Orrin exchanged glances. Then Orrin said, "I don't follow."

"It is a matter of magic," Arya put in, saving him or Elva the trouble. "Shiningbrow is unable to leave his side for the remainder of the day."

"Really?" Nasuada said, leaning forward with an intrigued look stealing over her face. "And might this be somehow related to your reluctance to leave our youngest warrior in the care of the Varden's abundantly capable healers?"

"You are most sagacious, My Lady," he told her with a slight bow.

"Hmm... you take your role as instructor seriously indeed, Eragon. Too seriously, I say."

"Aye. Only that... well, she is an orphan as am I, and we are linked through Saphira's marking. Both thrust into mantles of heroics with little warning, both preternaturally changed. Is it so strange for me to feel a kinship with her?"

When Nasuada's sour grimace made it obvious she did think it strange, Elva said in the barest whisper, "Not everyone thinks me wicked and hideous. Just _most_ everyone."

"I've never said that."

"You've thought it so many times that it's etched upon the inside of my cranium."

The Varden's appointed head looked away guiltily. "I cannot know what to say to you, Elva."

"No apology necessary, My Lady," she said, twisting her hand over her breast as the elves did. "I am a being of magic outside the natural law, part of that which plagues your nightmares more than anything else. You strive to avoid saying it to my face, however; it is a small mercy."

"Honestly," Nasuada urged suddenly, "I _want_ to like you! I do. You've saved my life, I welcome your council, you speak with a well-read bearing that anyone can and should respect. I just..."

"I'm an abomination." There was no anger in her words, only the barest hint of clemency. "Put it from your mind; do not dwell upon my feelings, for the one I endure is but _acceptance_. As long as I can do what I must for you, for our people... and for my master, I cannot complain."

Eragon was pleasantly surprised to see even Arya give a slight nod of approval at Elva's words. The changeling's attitude really was laudable.

"She has saved my life yet again, as well," Eragon spoke up to fill the strained silence. "That cannot be overlooked."

"Is it true you _flew, _unaided?" King Orrin asked eagerly. "What was the incantation? Did you require any sort of brew, perhaps a substance I could-"

"I'm rather an uncommon example," Elva said with a smirk that showed she found her own understatement amusing. "I assure you, though, I've no knowledge of a potion that will enable you to defy gravity. Not that this means it doesn't exist, mind; your search continues."

The king blanched; Elva had found him out. "Who says I'm searching for any such thing?"

"Anyone in the room who heard you babbling like a schoolboy," Nasuada muttered from the side of her mouth.

"Eragon," Arya said, striding over to him. She didn't exactly whisper, but allowed the bickering that broke out between rulers to drown out her speech from less sensitive ears. "You should be aware that Blödhgarm has been in contact with my mother and related your... unrecommended use of magic."

That dropped a leaden weight into Eragon's belly: Queen Islanzadí knew that no matter his reasons, he had come perilously close to abusing his command of the arcane. "I... what shall I say to her? Should I contact her via enchanted mirror straightaway and apol-"

"I would not apologize, no. This will only weaken your standing in her eyes. If and when she contacts you to demand an explanation, tell her what you told me; that you thought it justified in light of your apprentice's state, and that you would never, ever have killed anyone outright merely to feed your spell. Which is the truth... _is it not?"_

The query poised on the end of her speech was so filled with threat that both he and Elva flinched. "Arya, you know it is."

"One can never be too careful."

"Please stop blaming him," Elva whispered. "It is my fault, if I had parried instead of thrusting-"

"No, child. It is your right to die, as it is for all. It is _never _the right of an elven spellweaver to cast aside their reverence for life and suck dry those who are blameless and defenseless against it. Occasionally, in times of darkest need, it may become their _responsibility_ to do so."

Eragon sighed. "I wholeheartedly agree, Arya Svit-kona. You have given me much to ponder."

"No," Elva insisted. "Eragon won us this battle and managed to pull my fat from the fire in the doing. Is that not a righteous blow? Is this not war?"

"What he did was an act most unholy, Shiningbrow-elda," Arya said, not unkindly. "Or very nearly so. Never would I blame him in the least for wanting to save your life. Perhaps I could even admit that if I were the one who first reached your side, I would have debated the same techniques. But when you presume you have the right to rob from the spirits of men without their consent, you think yourself a god."

Elva stared at her for a long moment before her disgust turned to distress. "Like the darling Emperor, eh? Fine, you've convinced me. But I refuse to pretend that my Ebrithil acted outside that which is noble. He marched directly up to the line, yes, but never crossed it."

Then, somehow, Arya saw fit to laugh. "It is as you say, Argetbrun."

"Argetbrun? Is she still underfoot?"

The three of them turned to the opening of the tent – and were completely caught off-guard to find yet another king joining them.

"ORIK!" Eragon cried out. The next moment he had gathered himself, and bowed and said, "Your Majesty, Grimstnzborith Orik, Son of Thrifk. I welcome you humbly."

"As do we all, King," Nasuada and Orrin echoed in harmony.

"Bah," King Orik growled, waving aside the formalities. He cut a striking figure in unblemished armor and golden helm, an axe on one hip and the fabled war-hammer Volund at the other. "I bade you do away with that, did I not, Foster Brother? We are family, not distant clansmen!"

"Aye, Brother," Eragon said with a grin as they clasped each other's forearms. "But how did you come to be near Belatona?"

"By using our legs!" the dwarf cackled, as if the answer were the easiest in the world. "How did you think we arrived, _Hrethcarach,_ by saddling a few dragons on the way over?"

_I believe I resent that, _Saphira told him directly as she poked her head into the tent.

"Jurgen Saphira! Gûntera Bless, it is good to see you!"

_You as well, Majesty. I see the elevated status agrees with you._

"Do go on," he told her modestly. "And our Arya is here, I notice; a true reunion! Someone also mentioned Elva, I believe? Where is the little tyke?"

Elva gave an exasperated outcry. "Are there really so many purple-eyed witchlings in Alagaësia that we are indistinguishable?"

"_Vor Helzvogz korda!"_ he exclaimed. "Can that be you? Can it ever be?"

"Oeí, old friend." She slid the headband she had reclaimed from Eragon upward to reveal her marking, and his shock was amplified. "The rock changes, does it not?"

"_Changes?_ You've shot up like an uncontrollable weed! Have I lost all grasp of time?"

Eragon tried not to laugh aloud. _"Eta,_ my friend; she is the one who flouts it."

"Thank you again for my dagger," she told Orik fervently, drawing it and holding it out horizontally to demonstrate. "Or, well, I don't believe I ever had the chance to thank you in the first place, b-but it has been- every moment since then, I've had it at my side in everything I do!"

"It was my pleasure," he beamed, though still visibly shaken. "And I do mean that; working with the renowned master smith Rhunön was a treat the likes of which I've seldom been given! So... how be it named?"

Before she could answer, the tent was invaded again when in walked Katrina, a purposeful stride carrying her past all others and up to Nasuada. "My Lady, what is this nonsense?"

"I bet your pardon?"

"You are sending my husband back to Feinster? Is he not your greatest mortal warrior?"

"Really, my dear woman," Jörmundur began testily, "you cannot simply barge in here-"

"It's allright," Nasuada sighed, scratching at the bandages on her arms. "Katrina, I thought it best he oversee our efforts there. Once I received word that the dwarves would be joining us for our siege on Dras-Leona, I thought-"

"But-"

"I thought you and _family_ might be safer there," she persisted. Katrina's hand went to her stomach, and she gulped. "Do I presume too much?"

"N-no, Lady Nasuada. I appreciate your concern for I and mine, earnestly, but if-"

"Roran Stronghammer to see Lady Nightstalker!" came the harsh grunt of an Urgal guard.

Elva groaned. "How many can fit in this tent, I wonder?"

"My Lady, I apologize," Roran panted, stooping over onto his knees to catch his breath. "When Birgit told me what Katrina planned to do, I made my way from the city gates to your tent as quickly as an elf, but if she has said-"

"Do not speak on my behalf!" Katrina hissed at him. "That is my prerogative!"

"-unacceptable!" Jörmundur was saying to no one in particular. "In all my years! If Ajihad were-"

"_MAELA!"_

All turned to Eragon, taken aback at his outburst and also at the power that coursed through the word. Even those who did not understand the ancient language sensed that he meant for them to fall silent. "Thank you. Now... I can't think of a better hour than this, when all of you have gathered."

In the next instant, fingernails were digging into his arm so painfully that only his training under Master Oromis kept him from screaming. He bent down for Elva to hiss into his ear, "I know what's knocking around in that head of yours, and you will do no such thing! I forbid it!"

"Why ever not?" he said with smiling eyes. "It's as opportune a time as any."

"But I haven't agreed to this – not verbally! Perhaps I would anyway, certainly, but I... Eragon, once you speak it, you cannot erase it from their memories! Even if you do at last shake yourself from this stupor and decide differently, it will be a part of them forever!"

"So be it. I have no qualms whatsoever. My heart is at peace."

Nodding numbly, she made to step back, but he reached out and latched onto her hand, bringing a rouge to her face that rivaled his own. Arya was already smirking, and Saphira's laughter shook the earth beneath. The others were confused and waiting impatiently, but as ten fingers locked together, Katrina's expression clarified into one of titillation. Eragon took a breath.

"Monarchs, friends, and family all... I have an announcement that needs be made."

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

* * *

><p>NOTES: That enough romance for you, Sentinel? Haha, yes, I'm winding it up... a few more things left. I love how in this chapter it's suddenly Eragon who's persistent and Elva turns into the reluctant one. What's the big announcement? Is Eragon really Galbatorix? (of course not, but that's a funny idea for a fic...) Stay tuned for more!<p> 


	13. Hjartagathren

_Chapter Thirteen – Hjartagathren_  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Eragon Shadeslayer was utterly exhilarated to his core. This perhaps could not be seen as he dressed himself in a fresh tunic and glinting, dwarf-made armor, but it was so.

The previous night had been exceedingly hectic. Though many had expressed wishes to hold off until after they finished instilling order in Belatona, the Dragon Rider refused to give an inch. The following day...

The following day was today.

There had been much guffawing and wringing of hands. Lady Nasuada and Roran were both aghast and demanded to know why he had taken leave of his senses. Many unkind words were bandied about before Saphira growled and rebuked them. Eragon reveled in her sentiment, replaying it over and over again in his mind:

_Do not presume to judge her based on the standards of ordinary men. After all, a dragon reaches maturity at six months. If anything, this means Elva has transcended beyond the rest of you two-legs and is all the more exemplary for it._

The naysayers said little after that.

"It's time."

Eragon nearly choked, then whirled to stare at Roran. "Ah, I... yes, thank you. How is my hair? Do you see this lock that strays from the others?"

"There is no stray lock," his cousin laughed. He also was dressed in a fine tunic, but without the armor. "You look a prince. Now, let us be off."

"But I forgot what I'm to say," Eragon protested, lying through his teeth. "Every word of it. Where is that blasted parchment?"

"I have it here; besides, you'll only be repeating what you hear. Do not overheat yourself or we'll be pawning off a puddle of melted wax that was once a Rider."

"Riotous," Eragon seethed. But finding no other reason to delay, he allowed himself to be steered from his tent by his chuckling cousin.

"Are you sure of this?"

Eragon's jaw worked for a moment before replying, "I assumed Saphira's words would have halted these kinds of questions."

"It is my familial obligation. In an hour, it will be too late for me to have spoken my piece." Roran paused to form his next thought carefully. "I know not of things such as these. But if it is true that it has only been a year..."

"A year in which she has lived a dozen lifetimes. To be honest, I often find myself wondering if _I _am too young."

A slow grin pulled at his mouth. "Fair enough. Then beyond that... she is headstrong and unstable, and her morals are beholden to none but herself. One never can predict if she will pat you on the back... or stab it."

"Careful, or I might find myself with the impression that you dislike her."

"That is untrue. I don't understand her well enough to dislike."

Sighing, Eragon watched his boots for a time before speaking again. "Roran, I have been inside her mind. It is a roiling sea of ache and sorrow, but drifting among the wreckage is such a beautiful, decent soul that you would cry to see its purity. It would be easy for her to allow those experiences to embitter her, to turn her into an agent of evil, and yet she fights, she believes, she trusts. She is nothing short of amazing."

"Says the man enamored."

"Aye," he admitted. "But even if I weren't..."

Roran clapped him on the shoulder. "As long as you've given it all the consideration this sort of decision is due, then I'll say no more about it."

"I appreciate it, and your standing with me."

"What else would I do?"

They weaved through a tangle of tents and found themselves facing a bustling throng. Eragon reflected on how small and quaint the crowd at Roran's wedding had been, and laughed to see his own turnout was nearly triple, if not larger. It wasn't every day the world's only free Dragon Rider took a bride.

_Bride._ Eragon was rolling the word on his tongue, marveling at how it sounded and what it meant to not only the world but within himself... when he glimpsed the one he would soon ascribe it to.

Elva was stunning beyond comparison. Her gown was tasteful and yet not overdone with baubles and frippery, mostly whites and blues but with accents of violet; Eragon would almost have been crestfallen if they _weren't_ there. These included a number of ribbons that had been woven through her undulating tresses. A veil with a wide band that covered Saphira's mark hid her face from him; he assumed it had been crafted specifically to obscure that which she considered most unsightly about herself. Beneath the hem he saw flashes of her traveling sandals, which had been cleaned and polished. The only thing that bespoke of her as anything other than future housewife was the belt she had stubbornly fastened around her waist and Skölir dangling from it. It did look a touch out of place, but then again there were a shortage of warriors among human women. More's the pity, in his opinion.

As they drew nearer each other and the crowd, an aisle parted that they would soon follow along and the former villagers of Carvahall began one of their time-honored wedding songs. Elva winced, and he very nearly laughed out loud; while a few were gifted, most of them couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Soon, Inra struck up her harp, lending an otherworldly quality to the music. Then they were a pace apart.

"This vile thing itches," Elva muttered. "And I look like a sickly peacock."

Eragon smirked. "I fare well, thank you for asking."

"Oh, leave me be. I'll not forgive you for putting me through such an ordeal."

"That sounds like a lovely way to start our lives together. Shall we have that stitched and hung above our hearth?"

"_Quiet!"_

As they turned and began to walk through their guests, remaining near but not touching, Eragon spotted Solembum carrying Elva's lacy train. He shot Eragon an impish grin. Most would probably no more remember the werecat had done it than if any other small boy had. Only the two of them and Saphira would know the truth – and Angela, who was a few steps behind her familiar and partner.

Saphira was curled near the area where their procession would end, only her majestic blue head elevated to watch. When their eyes met, she blinked merrily. _I congratulate the two of you before this display becomes even more nauseating._

_Thank you, O Scale-Flapper,_ Elva replied, translating the ancient language term for a dragon into her native tongue. It sounded distinctly less complimentary that way.

_Are you sure you're allright with me bringing her more permanently into our lives? _Eragon asked, briefly obscuring their connection from Elva. _If not, say so now._

_You will not trick me into giving you an escape route, Eragon,_ she laughed at him. _Shiningbrow is probably the most worthy candidate to be your mate we might ever find in all the land; brave and earnest, and wise beyond her years. Still... she might have been a little taller._

_I heard that last bit,_ Elva grumbled. Then they were coming to a stop, and all chance for casual conversation had passed.

"Greetings and _kvetha, _one and all_._" Arya paused to look around serenely, hands steepled in front of her. "Today, we have gathered so that we might celebrate the betrothal and union of not one, but two of our greatest warriors: Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of Brom, and Elva Shiningbrow, Daughter of Gramarye." Eragon smiled at the jape; the greater portion of their audience would never know she had merely stated that Elva was borne of magic and think it to be a parent's name. "Before we begin, I have been asked to speak, in order to both express my own feelings and to perhaps dispel some misgivings I fear linger among you.

"This ceremony, a _hjartagathren –_ a joining of the hearts by oath – is one largely unfamiliar to my people; our lovers meet, for a time, and then part when it is over. It has become a necessary thing, due to our scarcity and longevity. Consider if you will, binding your life to another. The first ten years are peaceable. So are the next fifty. But when two centuries have passed, you may grow weary of their presence. Therefore, you go separate ways amiably; there is no resentment or sense of loss. It is simply time.

"Having said that, however... I can also appreciate the desire to feel a closeness that cannot be reached by mere friendship or passing fancy. To trust a companion with not only your love, but your livelihood and happiness, is indeed a rarity that should be cherished. Which is why it saddens me to hear the sort of reactions I have over the course of the past day."

There was quite a stir of mumbles within the audience by now. Many of them held the sanctity of marriage in highest regard, although many still felt shame at having done precisely that which she accused them of.

"To better understand, we must confront the rumors and either confirm or deny them. By your leave, Argetbrun?" When Elva nodded, she did not raise her head at the end, but stared down into her bouquet (which definitely included violets, as well as red and orange roses), awaiting this ugliness to pass. "Elva was born approximately one year ago to parents who are no longer with us. None can know what would have become of her had that been the end of this story. But there came a day when our esteemed Shur'tugal aimed to better her lot in life with a blessing. Thus, he and Saphira Bjartskular, his mighty partner, saw fit to bestow magic on her.

"From that day on, she was fundamentally changed from within. The effects began slowly, and built until she was far beyond that of mortal man. As you can perhaps see for yourself, she has reached full maturity, circumventing decades of growth in months. The violet eyes that mark her as a being apart gaze into the future as if through a window. She also has gained the physical and magical abilities of a Rider, though she is paired to no dragon. It is beyond not only her own grasp, but that of anyone else. Even so, she thinks, feels, fights, and loves as an adult, and can only be treated as one. Indeed, I myself have clashed steel with her, and find her more calculating and formidable than many seasoned veterans among my own race. No child is capable of such feats; she is woman.

"Why, then, do I hear so much talk of heresy, and infidelity, and impropriety? She is a witch, you say. She is a child, you say. Eragon himself is a child by the standards of my people. Our Queen Islanzadí could have met some of your great, great, great grandfathers; to her, you are _all_ babes. Yet there have been elves bonded with humans in the past. Is this no different?"

As the murmuring began anew, Arya nodded solemnly. "Ah, but I see some of you hold that _any_ unions not between beings of equal age and race are disgraceful. That is your right. It is also your right to leave this gathering at once." She paused for effect. "That was not merely a riddle of the mind, but a suggestion: if you cannot bear to see these beings confess their love in your presence, then return to your tents and contemplate why that is so."

Arya held her tongue for much longer this time. The wedding party also kept their peace. Eragon saw a few nobles from King Orrin's court shuffle off. Then a few dwarves made to leave, but they didn't get far; a loud clearing of Orik's throat put them back in their spots. A few more humans left, and that was it; only the tiniest handful of people could not appreciate Arya's words.

"Rejoice," Arya said quietly. "For now, we are all of us _fricaya; _friends. If you do not look down your nose upon their adoration, then you have earned my respect. I now stand aside for Grimstnzborith Orik, who shall continue in my stead."

"_Arûna jok,_ Arya." The dwarf paced forward, Volund in hand and a look most grave behind his hearty beard. "Come now we, _knurlan,_ humans and elves alike, to join Eragon of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum to the fair Elva Argetbrun in sacred matrimony. They are both of sound reputation, and to the best of mine knowledge, none other has a claim upon either of their hands. If that not be the case, or if any other reason exists to delay their happiness, then speak ye now those objections before all that we may weigh your arguments." Orik glared around at the audience, who seemed too frightened to speak directly to a king. Perhaps it was for the best. "Good, then. Who here speaks for Eragon Bromsson?"

Roran stepped forward, clearing his throat. "I, Roran Garrowsson, speak for him as my blood."

"And who here speaks for Elva Gramaryesdaughter?"

Angela stepped forward. "Elva has neither mother nor aunt, so I, Angela, speak for her as my blood." Eragon confessed himself disappointed that he would not be learning anything more of the herbalist's heritage this day. Orik merely nodded.

"It is right and proper. What, then, might Eragon Bromsson bring to this marriage, that both he and his wife may prosper?"

"He brings his Rider's sword, Brisingr," Roran announced. "He brings his unceasing concern for her welfare. He brings the knowledge and wisdom of dragons and those bound to them, and the promise of a world free of oppression."

Many humans who had not been present at Roran's own wedding began to whisper to one another, disapproving that Eragon offered up no riches or land, but the men and women of Carvahall were no longer shocked; Roran had done much the same as Eragon. To drive the point home, Eragon drew Brisingr and held it out and to the side, so that all behind him might see it clearly. A hush quickly fell.

"Do you accept this offer, Angela Nonesdaughter?"

Angela gave a slight nod. "I do."

"Good. And what might Elva Gramaryesdaughter bring to this marriage, that both she and her husband may prosper?"

There was a twinkle in Angela's eye, and Eragon suddenly dreaded whatever words were about to tumble from her mouth. "She brings her Rider's dagger, Skölir. She brings her insights, her strength and prowess, and her unswerving dedication to Eragon Bromsson. And... a small dowry, to be disclosed at another time."

Unfortunately, "at another time" was highly unorthodox; a marriage was not a time to be secretive, but to bear all in front of all so that proof of their devotion would ring true. But Angela did not elaborate, and Eragon felt no need to press the matter – especially when he saw Elva copy his action. Her blade was just of length and their positions close enough that the blades crossed, which he thought one of the most apropos coincidences he'd ever witnessed.

"Aye," Orik said, recovering quickly. "Well, then? Do you accept this offer, Roran Garrowsson?"

"I do," Roran said, still looking at Angela with one of his eyebrows raised. The herbalist flashed him a toothy grin, which seemed to snap him back to the matter at hand.

"Thus your families become one, in accordance with the law of the land." Orik now addressed Eragon and Elva directly, allowing himself the smallest smile without breaking the mood. "Those who intercede for you have agreed upon the terms of your marriage. Eragon, be ye pleased with how Roran has negotiated on your behalf?" A nod. "Elva, be ye pleased with how Angela has negotiated on your behalf?" A nod. "Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of Brom and Foster Son of Hrothgar, do you swear then, by your name and by your lineage, that you shall protect and provide for Elva Shiningbrow while you both yet live?"

"I, Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of Brom and Foster Son of Hrothgar, do swear, by my name and by my lineage, that I shall protect and provide for Elva Shiningbrow..." And so it went. Each of them responded to the threefold oaths in kind. To everyone's great amusement, Elva stumbled a bit when she came to the lines pertaining to child-bearing and -rearing, but when the laughter persisted Saphira put a stop to it with a stamp of a single foreclaw. At that, Elva herself laughed.

"Now, there is a detail to tend." Orik withdrew a small stone from behind his back. "This is a Knurlnien, a Heart of Stone. With it, Elva Shiningbrow will be inducted into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, as is proper being that she-"

"No!" The cry came from among the dwarves, but before others could pinpoint the source several of his neighbors had already beaten him into submission. "Pardon my interruption!" he called out, amid barking laughter from some of his fellows.

"You and I shall discuss the lay of your fault line later," Orik told him severely. He then cleared his throat. "As is proper, being that she marries one of our clansmen, so that she might one day be buried in stone beside her life-mate. And I am Grimstborith _and _Grimstnzborith, and I decide who is and isn't Ingeitum, do I not?"

"_OEÍ!"_ came the immediate and bellowed answer from his clan. The dwarves from other clans were less enthusiastic, but still they answered.

"_Werg,"_ Orik said under his breath before speaking to Elva. "Prick your wrist with the stone and wet it; ah, not so hasty now, just a dab! Now, repeat after me: _Os il dom qirânû carn dûr thargen, zeitmen, oen grimst..."_ When Elva had done as he asked, he nodded, and Arya passed behind them and quickly healed her cut before returning to her spot. "It is done. Clansmen and beloved, the both of ye. Have you anything prepared to say yourselves?"

Eragon grinned and said, "Only that I'm glad we're not marrying a third person to us, as this ceremony might never end!" He received a smattering of both laughter and applause.

"Elva?"

Eragon expected her to make a similar quip. Instead, she cleared her throat, swallowed, then cleared it again. And the instant her lips parted, his heart began breaking.

"I have been waiting for this ever since you blessed me, my bonded mate. Praying for it, hurting without it. But even when our paths reunited in the forest, I still did not believe it could come to pass. Not during the Agaetí Blödhren, that day of transformation. Not when you rejoined the Varden, and I had grown strong and able. Not for a breath... until you swore it to me, an unbreakable oath that neither blackest night nor rain nor cold nor death could ever steal away. And that, I now return to you: _Eka eddyr du kona abr Eragon."_

Not only did Arya sigh, a wistful smile at her lips, but Inra and one of the other male elves lost their ever-present composure and gasped aloud at the declaration. She had named herself _his _woman in the ancient language; it was impossible for her to leave him now. Which meant in her deepest soul, come what may, she never intended to for the rest of her life.

The next thing Eragon was aware of was Roran's hand in the center of his back, gently returning him to an upright position. He gave a nervous laugh, which the crowd echoed; how humiliating to nearly faint at your own nuptials! But what the non-elven spectators could not appreciate was that Elva had bound her heart to his forevermore. Would it extend beyond the grave? At least she had not rashly repeated her mistake from just after he saved her from the abyss and bound herself _to his side_ forevermore. That would have quickly grown cumbersome.

"Well put!" Orik said merrily, having put down his hammer to clap for them. Many others followed suit. "Ah, the _dorzâda_ of youth! It is a beauteous thing I see in you two. Now... cross your wrists."

Both Eragon and Elva sheathed their steel and did as he bade, fingers caressing wrists, itching for the other's sensation. With a chuckle, still reflecting on Elva's speech, Orik produced a red satin ribbon and wound it around their wrists three times before tying it with a knot. "By the title of Grimstnzborith and all my rights therein, I now name you _cardozâdan oen sartos –_ lovers and family! You become man and wife!"

As those gathered hooted and whistled and clapped, Greta noisily bursting into overwhelmed sobs, Eragon flipped back the blusher on Elva's veil. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, but he halted her with a finger. "Eh?" she asked.

"Wait, Skilfz Delva._"_

Then, as the dwarves who heard that all gave a huge belly-laugh, he pushed her veil farther upward to expose the mark. He saw the frustration with her inability to stop him ripple over her features, but in the following moment she understood what he meant to do and smiled afresh, fluid beading at the corners of her violet orbs. As the cheers began to subside, unsure of what might happen, Eragon pressed his silvery palm to her silvery brow.

It was as if a thousand suns crashed into the spot. All were forced to look away, be they men or dwarves or dragons. And what passed between the two in that moment, only they knew.

_**-o-o-o-o-o-**_  
><em>To Be Continued...<em>

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><p>NOTES: Aww, nuptials! I hope nobody is disappointed with the way this played out, because I'm pretty satisfied with it; I can tell Magma Fyre and Sentinel were! And let's hope the website fixes their document uploader soon or I won't be able to submit the final chapter! Yes, that's right; sorry, but I only have enough story left to put out one more. I promise it'll be a doozy though. See you in a few!<p> 


	14. RiderKyn

NOTES: Alright peeps, we're just about done here! I'm so glad to have been able to write something that kept a few readers entertained for a few minutes... and to think, I almost didn't even write this story at all. Had it in the back of my head for a while, then scribbled down chapter one (of the prequel) and posted, intending to leave it as a one-shot... and it just grew and grew to a total of 22 chapters. Crazy! Much thanks to Magma Fyre, Oblit and Sentinel for their ongoing support, and CP1064 and everybody else even if they didn't review much (no shame in that, I'm just glad you read it and liked it!) Enough outta me, I'm gonna let the newlyweds "consummate" and so on. See you 'round, and Gûntera Bless! ~MS

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><p><em>Chapter Fourteen – Rider-Kyn<em>  
>~~~~~~~~~~<p>

Eragon and Elva's wedding feast was magnificent, if of simple selection. The blushing couple sat at the head of their table, presiding over the revelry with their hands bound to one another as a parade of their friends and neighbors congratulated them and offered gifts. From Orik, sturdy helms graced with the hammer-and-stars crest of his– _their_ clan. From Arya, a ring bearing the _yawë_ that was very nearly identical to Eragon's, crafted with her mother's generous permission; this forever declared Shiningbrow a friend of elf-kind. From Lady Nasuada and King Orrin, various jewelry and fine clothing – and also from Nasuada, a warm hug from which she did not flinch, bringing Elva to tears.

Roran and Katrina managed to scare them up an entire barrel of mead, all to themselves. Jeod and Helen presented a beautiful painting of Saphira. Trianna, on behalf of Du Vrangr Gata, had magically produced quite a large quantity of lace to add to Elva's dowry. Greta's gift was a hearth-rug for their future abode, Horst's was decorative shields, Angela's a paste that allegedly healed any wound, Jörmundur's one pair of fine dress shoes for each, Birgit's a scroll that had once been given to her by Brom (which made Eragon clutch her hand, eyes streaming in gratitude). Much to his surprise and the alarm of others, even Nar Garzhvog barged into their celebration for just long enough to present the two of them with an Urgal's _namna, _a woven cloth depicting the proud history of "Firesword and Quickknife." Both newlyweds were delighted in all of these.

Blödhgarm and his retinue did not present them with physical gifts; rather, they reenacted an elven story set to song in full. No one else could find words as the performance wore on, so captivated were they by the voices and movements and instruments, though only the bride and groom and a handful of the dwarves could understand the ancient language well enough to follow the tale. It told of two elven lovers, the man falling out of love with the woman, and how she changed the shape of the very world around them to bring his heart back to hers. Not a dry eye was to be found, whether or not they comprehended why; its meaning drove through to the soul by nature of its haunting music.

The evening wore on, and some of the dwarves of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum held games involving feats of strength and other showmanship, as was their age-old wedding tradition. Eragon chuckled ruefully when he realized they would not likely enjoy the Ghastgar as he'd witnessed after Orik's own ceremonies, given the absence of their Feldûnost mounts – and was therefore gladly proven wrong when two enormous mountain goats were produced and a handful of willing spear-wielders saddled them and began the jousting. All humans laughed and banged on their tables as they watched, glad for a showing of another culture's games. Elva spoke with Orik at great length about these, and the king beamed at her and reflected on the soundness of his decision to usher her into their clan.

At long last, the festivities began to wind down. Most of the dwarves either retired to their own camp or were passed out wherever they may lay, filled with food and drink. Many of the human guests had also found their way back to tents and duties on the home front or the war front. Lady Nasuada bade them spend as much time as they needed in one another's company before returning to duties – as long as it did not extend beyond a few days – before taking her leave, as well.

Roran and Katrina, the two very last stragglers, embraced them with the warmth that only resides within family. During this, Eragon overheard Katrina telling Elva that she wanted to hear "all manner of detail come morning." Eragon coughed into his fist, and Roran laughed and thumped him on the back.

This left them alone to pick their way over piles of saturated guests and back to his tent. Saphira mentioned in a would-be offhand tone that she was going far, far into the Spine to hunt and "warned" them that she could not be contacted through their mind-link over such a distance. Eragon, red as the setting sun itself, thanked her sincerely.

Then they truly _were_ alone.

"That was a very stupid thing to do," he told them as he began to shuck his armor. It was slow going with their hands bound.

"What was?"

"Promising yourself to me in elven tongue. You are a woman chained now. I would not have asked that of you."

Elva smiled as she dropped the sword-belt he had bade Orik fashion in Du Weldenvarden next to that of Beloth the Wise. "Which is why I did not tell you beforehand. It was my own gift to you. Is the bride not permitted to give anything to her groom?"

"Aye, allright," he told her gruffly as his boots joined the armor. "But I'd rather you crafted me another fairth instead." Then he noticed how she stood anxiously by his bedroll, only having removed her belt and veil, trembling. "What is it?"

"I... this night has come after so long, and now I don't... I'm not sure I'm ready to..."

"There is no law saying we must," he told her gently, placing his free hand at her waist. "And we may remove the ribbon now if y-"

"_No,_" she whispered urgently, then caught herself and pursed her lips as her other hand caressed the two joined ones. "Eragon, I'd like to keep it on for the remainder of our day. I'd like to keep it on until we die, but that would be impractical."

Nodding with a smile, he began to sit, and she followed. His pulse raced on. Slowly, they both worked to remove her sandals, and when they had done he traced a finger along the sole of one foot, causing her to giggle and twitch away. Eragon smiled to himself. "Clean."

"Hmm?"

"They're clean now. I can still remember how dirty they were when I met who you are for the first time."

Elva's reflective brow furrowed. "What do you mean, exactly? 'Met who I am'?"

"Well, I met you first when I blessed you, but then you were... someone else. It wasn't until you came to me in the clearing that I was introduced to Elva."

"That's putting it mildly," she laughed, tucking a ribbon-twined lock behind her ear. "There is little connection between she and I. Or between the Eragon who blessed me and the one whose touch is so tender now."

He averted his eyes from her, trying to hide the grin that would not be banished. "Am I really so different?"

"As east from west, beloved. We have both of us become something more in the interim."

As if by unspoken agreement, they removed Eragon's boots and his trousers. Elva's dress quickly followed, though as per her request they delicately slit one sleeve down the seam so it could be easily repaired rather than untie their marriage-binding. By this time, he could no longer think with a clear head, but when his hand went to her shoulder and began sliding the strap of her slip downward, she whimpered and trembled anew.

"You needn't fear," he breathed into her ear, causing her to spasm and gasp. "It is I."

"Astute observation," she joked to distract herself from this strange reluctance.

"Please talk to me."

Elva's eyes found his, pleading for him to understand even before she spoke. "I... do not think me dim, but I cannot help but return to that eve. Eragon my sweet, I am not virtuous. _We_ are not. Both of us were filled to the brim with the sorcery of the saturnalia before, so what if... what if I fail to live up to your expectations? Whatever shall we do then?"

Frowning at her, he placed his hand firmly at her temple. "That can never happen. My heart knows what it wants. And how have we been robbed of virtue? It was only you and I before, and it is only you and I now. Somehow you think this unfaithful?" She only shook her head, at a loss to explain. "Oh, Cursed-By-Blessing. You are all that I need."

"I thought Arya was all you needed." When he drew a breath to protest, she rushed onward, "No, don't rise to that. It is not a challenge or accusation, I... you were so hopelessly invested in her, and now I have you in my arms. It boggles the mind. But I can never be Arya. I can scarcely manage Elva, who isn't half the woman-"

"_Elva is all I need,"_ he reiterated firmly. "Our decision was not entered into lightly. What we shared inside your mind? Nothing compares; I have felt your spirit, and it was to feel the touch of angels. We are silver-bonded and wedded by our clan-head, and... Angvard's gray horse, I love you so, you thick-skulled half-wit!"

Before she could again compile a list of reasons to refrain, she bucked upward and enmeshed her lips with his, fingernails scraping his back, devouring as if he were the only source of nutrition in an endless desert. Seconds drifted by like melodic whips of steam, and they tasted and touched as their movements became more feverish, salty mist rising from them and sensations blinding. And they were overjoyed.

When Eragon began to remove the final barrier to her elegant form, lips at her collarbone, she caught his wrist with a look in her eye that was as panicked as it was excited. "Eragon-ebrithil, I beg your patience; I must hear it from you this last time to be sure. We have been tricked into the same bed once before, and I'll not allow it to befall us now, so I would be absolutely certain... do you desire me?"

"Oh, you feel so exquisite." A slow, enraptured smile spread across her features when she recognized her own words from several days prior; she hadn't thought him to be paying her any mind. "When the time is right for me to take you as my wife... imagine what a fantastic encounter shall await us."

For the next hour, imagination bled into reality.

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

"A crown for your thoughts?"

Elva smiled, nuzzling into his chest, tracing tiny circles upon it. Her lover was nipping at the heels of sleep, but still his fingers played along her hair and back. This was her entitlement, and she pranced within it, ecstatic that she had reclaimed her rightful spot upon his chest as they slept. "They're not worth even that."

"Allow me to judge."

"Very well." Neck stretching to its fullest, her lips pushed into the side of his throat, and she felt the muscle beneath convulse; still so new, everything so new... "You are all."

"All of what?"

She grinned into his skin and clung tightly to him, afraid he might descend through the bed and the dirt and away from her even as she soared on wings of satisfaction and gratitude. In binding their hands, they unearthed a hidden paradise. At long last, the orphaned wastrel had found her place - and as she'd always known, it was at his side.

"All."

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

It was wet upon the ground when they woke. Apparently it had thundered and rained fiercely, but neither of the lovers knew of it; they had sank into the arms of contented sleep after the many exhausting activities of their wedding... and all things related.

When Eragon made to stand from their bed, he was yanked back down onto it by the ribbon still tied around their wrists. This also woke his new bride, who gave a mighty shriek when she saw that they were both clad in only the ribbon. Following this, they laughed, discarded the bothersome satin and initiated their passions with renewed vigor.

Following that they bathed each other, and even this was a voyage of wonderment and discovery, exploring in the light of day what had previously been enshrouded. Eragon couldn't help but reflect on how embarrassed she had been for him to see her younger self being washed by the elf-maids in Ellesméra; how everything had changed! A nostalgic smile at his lips, he realized that she had at last convinced him to take a bath with her – and it had taken nothing more than sacrificing her life for his and a hastily-assembled marriage.

Elva was also taught the spell Eragon used to shave, mentioning that "it may pose some use to me". Comprehension dawned on him when he saw a very fine stubble falling away from her legs, and she laughed to see him squirm.

Clean and smooth, they returned to the bedroll for a time, doing nothing more than watching each other's expressions, punctuated by light caresses and lips seeking out lips. When they could no longer make excuses to stay, they finally dressed and braved the world outside their sacred hideaway.

"I'd been meaning to ask after that bloodstain on your headband," Eragon said as they walked. "Your answer left something to be desired."

"It is not of your concern," she grunted. "But… I suppose I should hide nothing from my husband."

"You could tell me through the mind-link if you'd rather."

Elva blushed. "I… would you think me strange if I said I'm not ready for _that _level of intimacy just now? Silly, as we've plumbed the depths quite thoroughly."

"I have plumbed them," he said suggestively, and she giggled.

"You're even beginning to _sound_ like me." A deep sigh. "It was… a reminder to myself. That I sometimes behave too brashly, take on challenges greater than my abilities. My attempt to manufacture temperance within myself."

"It's Arya's blood, isn't it?" When she didn't answer, he nodded. "I guessed as much."

"You could say it's also a badge of honor. But I shall wear it until this war has reached an end, to remind me that while I have become a fearsome warrior… my lessons remain incomplete." Then she grinned. "What else would you teach me, O Master?"

"I'd teach you to stop calling me Master," he shot back. "People who overhear that may get the wrong idea about how I treat my wife. And I never liked it, anyway."

As they reached the Stronghammer tent, she shrugged in concession. "I'll try and keep it between us, then… but you shall always be my master, because it was you who trained me. It is meant in deference to one whose knowledge of the ways of the Rider ushered in my own, not to you as a more worthwhile being than I, or because it is a childish pet-name. You're the only Rider left who can be called Ebrithil, are you not? It _belongs_ to you."

"Can't you just call me Eragon?"

Elva stopped just short of the tent-flap and grasped his hands. "I could, but as I've stated time and time again, you aren't 'just' anyone. Not in the slightest. So much more…"

A brief kiss. Then they entered to eat and talk for a span.

During their meal, they learned from Roran that all was in place to defend Surda's newest annex, and that they would likely be marching in the morn, once they had stocked wagons and replenished their collective health. On to Dras-Leona. Both couples bemoaned their hurried pace, especially the two who were still trying to enjoy their honeymoon. Alas, war does not sit idly by while romance has its way.

Katrina also inquired after those details she had mentioned the night previous. Eragon and Roran politely excused themselves while the women gossiped. Although Roran asked his cousin a few similar questions, both men seemed to be in unspoken agreement that neither of them truly wanted to discuss the matter.

The newlyweds returned to the practice fields and sparred off and on, mostly playing. Their laughter drew attention from far and wide far more than their swordplay. When Arya and Orik arrived, the four of them dulled their blades (Orik allowing Elva to make up for his lack of magic) and staged a battle royale, darting at each other as if representatives from four opposing armies total. It was long and bloody work, and left them all aching through to their marrow, and they had not a single regret. The four bowed to each other and agreed to share a drink come nightfall.

Bruised and slick with sweat, Elva dragged Eragon back to their tent, where they again became one in glorious, frenzied movements, scarcely bothering to discard their garments – indeed, scarcely able to reach the tent at all. The pleasure intermingled with ache from their mock swordplay, and was somehow all the more gratifying. Eragon would never have thought that the odor of hard labor combined with dirt and leather vestments coming from his wife could be so very intoxicating. Yet it was – far moreso than any perfume. Her strength matched his, and it showed in every aspect of their union. He could almost sing of it... if he were a bard.

Another bath was drawn, in which they soaked quite a bit longer that the heat would invade their bones and soothe them. Baths were a luxury in such desperate times, but they had been newly united; they could splurge for one day. Each time the water grew cold within their wooden tub, they took turns muttering a spell to raise the temperature. Legs and feet played beneath the surface, teasing, igniting sparks of passion that quickly faded; neither of them could muster the energy to venture beyond this.

All the while they talked. Of themselves, of Oromis, of the elves further north and their battles… of Arya and Nasuada, and of the Urgals and the wisdom of accepting them into their ranks. Eragon welcomed her insights into how Murtagh might find his true name and alter it, but neither of them came to any startling revelation. Elva whispered an apology for wounding his half-brother, a member of his- _their_ family, and was quickly silenced.

"Do not," he said firmly as he toweled her off, hands loving and gentle in opposition to his tone of voice. "He has chosen his fate – or had it mostly thrust upon him. Even so… he could rend his own stomach and rob Galbatorix of his most valuable knight."

"He might," Elva said doubtfully as she held his hands fast where they rested over her chest, sliding her fingertips along his calloused knuckles. "Though I have difficulty laying that burden upon him. It is only natural for a body to lust after life."

Eragon rested his chin on her shoulder. "I have a body worth lusting after in my very tent."

"Swine," she countered, batting his hands away. "You redirect my attention from the topic of his plight with wily words."

"It is the very last topic I wish to speak of during my all-too-brief honeymoon."

"Perhaps one day we shall live a peaceful life tilling your land, Farm-boy," she goaded with a smirk. "Two Riders of legend, looking after the cows."

"Aye, perhaps. If… I am to live out my days here." When she turned to look at him with concerned eyes, he nearly ignored her unspoken question in viewing her freshly-scrubbed face and how it set his stomach to pirouetting. "So alas, my love, there is a prediction."

When he had finished, Elva gave him a solemn nod. "It could be true. It very well could be – and after both your loss of loved ones and swooning over _clearly the wrong woman,_" she bit out, eliciting a chuckle from him, "I would also be inclined to trust in Angela's words. But is it set in stone that you must leave Alagaësia behind?"

"What about you? What do you see, my far-seer?"

Rolling her great violet eyes at his flattery, she spent a long moment concentrating. "Nothing. I'm sorry… I can't even see so far as your confrontation with the Emperor, let alone what follows. All I sense in our future is great joys and great tragedies, neither of which I can pinpoint so far ahead of time."

"Then you must promise me something: that you will look after your own life with at least half the attentions as you do for mine. No, I'll not hear it," he headed off her protestations. "Remember, you've become far more important to me than some sniveling apprentice."

"At what point did I snivel?" she muttered.

"You are my happiness, as I told you in the ancient language. Which means I believe every word, down to the bottom of my essence. Being parted from you would be worse than dying for me."

"But how would it be for the Varden? For Surda, for the suffering Empire? Far better to lose me than to lose you."

"But if you are lost, then so am I. One is the same as the other."

Elva threw aside their towel and embraced him, pressing flush with his form as if trying to absorb every drop of warmth. "A mutual conviction, _vinr-eka._"

_**-0-0-0-0-0-**_

Elva smeared a coating of _nalgask_ on her lips to prevent them from chapping as they wove and tumbled through banks of clouds on Saphira's back. She handed the small container over her shoulder to her husband, who stowed it in a pocket somewhere. Then he slid his hands around her waist.

"I recall there being an era in which you recoiled when I pressed my back into your front," she announced. "Has that era passed?"

"It has." Immediately, there was not an inch of distance between them. "Ah, your warmth..."

_Please refrain from over-exciting yourselves while we are in midair,_ Saphira said testily. _I am not a bed upon which to copulate._

_Saphira!_ Eragon cried out, but Elva was laughing.

_Perish the thought, Bjartskular._ For a time, they flew on in silence before Elva cleared her throat. "Ah... Eragon, my love, there is..."

"Hmm?"

"There is something I would tell you. It is news which may not be welcome at this time, and I cannot predict your reaction, for I... I'm not sure what it may mean."

"No." He gaped at her for a long moment, scalp tingling. He slid one hand up to grip her stomach. "Are you...?"

"_GODS!"_ she cried out, swatting the hand away. "Have you taken all leave of sense? Of course I'm not – a single day later? You may come from a strong lineage, but not _that_ strong!"

"Allright, allright, enough!" he said, laughing sheepishly. Then his brow furrowed. "But... if not that, then what _is_ the matter?"

Almost as embarrassed as he was, she turned and dug into one of Saphira's saddlebags; he could just see the hint of redness in her cheek from his erroneous assumption. When she straightened, she held a small sack, which she drew open... and Eragon nearly spun to earth.

_Merciful Wyrda! _Saphira cried out, uncharacteristically taken aback.

"That..." Eragon's throat worked to produce sound. "That is an egg."

"It is. And, as promised, it is also my dowry that was to be disclosed at a later date. Adequate?"

"Adequate!" No more words would come to him. It was a dragon egg; it looked nearly identical to Saphira's, save that it was emerald in color. However, the more he stared at it, the more he was unsure of his first impression. "Why... that is, I think my mind plays tricks on me."

"Don't be so sure," she told him darkly. "For when I draw nearer to it, the color changes – if that's what you had noticed. Every time it comes this close to my skin, it begins to take on a violet cast. Like my eyes. Make of that what you will."

"What happens when you touch it?"

Elva shrugged as she allowed it to drop into the sack and tied it off, carefully placing it back in its saddlebag. "None can know. I've only handled it through a layer of cloth."

"I don't understand. Why haven't you touched it directly?"

"Because I'm afraid it will hatch for me!" she told him breathlessly, a true fear in her words that was not fabrication or exaggeration. "Will I then be a genuine Shur'tugal? Yes, I already have the prerequisite sigil and brightsteel blade, but will I be prepared to fully take on that title? On the other hand, what if it does _not_ hatch for me? Am I cursed to be eternally dragonless? Either possibility gnaws at my innards, so... I cannot bring myself to find out. Not yet."

"You don't foresee which will occur?"

"Nay; it is clouded to me." Elva's lips twitched in a resigned grimace as her hands gently caressed his where they lay on her hips. "Possibly because it is my own future, or because it is my own choice that influences my future. Six of one, a half-dozen of the other."

_What shall we do, then? _Saphira asked. _Do we tell Nasuada and the Varden that we have the final egg of my race?_

"It is not their concern." When Eragon leaned forward to stare at her incredulously, she smiled at him. "Is Nasuada a Dragon Rider? Are any of them? Bonded mate, it is you and I; we are the only two remaining free Rider-Kyn. Consult with Glaedr if you wish, but in the end it must be our decision what will be done with the last dragon. Ours and Saphira's."

"How did you get it, anyway?"

A light shrug as she turned to survey the ground below. "I didn't. It came to me."

Each of them thought on this for a time. How often would these bouts of unintentional gramarye flare up? At long last, Eragon adjusted his grip on her waist and said, "If you _were_ to touch the egg, and it hatched... what then would you do?"

"First and foremost?" She twisted in the saddle, hands slipping around his waist now as the wind fanned her sleek black hair out around her head like a corona. "I would stay by your side, husband. Naturally."

He grinned. "A familiar refrain. Very well, Skilfz Delva; decide either way, but know that I will always welcome your nearness, and always expect you to be... a thoroughly astounding creature."

Blinking up at him with eyes that perhaps were not so virulent after all, she reached one hand up and slid her bandana down to hang loosely around her neck. His palm raised, pressed silver mark against silver mark... and Saphira roared in reflected joy as three beings slid into one consciousness, soaring through clouds, hands on waists, sunset warming their hearts. It was one of the finest days to be alive and so high above the blue-green world.

They then broke the white-hot link and Elva lifted her chin, whispering something just before she lost herself in his lips. As she spoke, she pinned his gaze down with a look that betrayed how very fortunate she thought herself, how grateful to whoever ruled the heavens that she had been given what she desired most, had been allowed to fight for him and what they believed. What irony; in rashly blessing a nameless babe, he also profoundly blessed himself. There, deep in pools of amethyst, Eragon Shadeslayer glimpsed what love really was: it was belonging.

"Aye, my Ebrithil."

~~~~~~  
><em>Du Letta<br>__(the end)_


End file.
